


doubt thou the stars are fire

by runescape_online



Series: but never doubt i love [1]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: (but you can very easily overlook them if you want), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Choose Your Own Apprentice, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Hints of Apprentice/Asra/Muriel, M/M, Nameless and Genderless MC, Other, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2020-05-19 22:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 79,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runescape_online/pseuds/runescape_online
Summary: Lucio and Julian are soulmates.It goes badly, until it doesn't.The Count of Vesuvia wasn’t a good man, but he wasn’t evil, either. He was immature, self-centered, careless, destructive—but, even then, it was clear his behavior was attention-seeking to the core.Lucio was lonely.It didn’t excuse his actions, but… loneliness? Loneliness was something Julian understood.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> [tommy wiseau voice] oh hi mark
> 
> i haven't posted a fic online since my old ff.net days so, uh, welcome to my attempt at breaking back into writing for a public audience as opposed to writing for just myself. i was writing this hot garbage for my friend and got like 40k (!!!) into this and she finally convinced me to share it so here it is. probs a little ooc by sheer virtue of the trope im writing but hey i love soulmate aus and i love this rarepair. idk maybe i'll be able to come up w a better summary later. also i know the wiki says julian is bad at drawing but with all due respect i disagree, if only bc certain plot points wouldn't work if he were indeed bad lol. title is taken from hamlet btw.

It was in the early hours of the morning that Julian heard someone knocking furiously on his door. 

They must’ve been at it for some time, hammering their fist against the wood loudly enough to wake both the dead _and_ every single one of his neighbors but still not enough to wake their intended target, because it wasn’t their knocking that roused Julian from sleep—instead, it was a shout from a neighbor that abruptly tore him from his dreams and had him jolting upright in his chair, startled. He recognized the voice as belonging to an older man with a reputation for little patience—someone who already hated him and had called him an _unsavory character_ to his face more than once—and he hurried to answer the door, rubbing the crick in his neck that’d formed from passing out at his desk yet again. 

Surprisingly, in the doorway was one of the Palace guards, their face red as they clutched a letter in their hands, while behind them stood Julian’s neighbor, his arms crossed and fuming. The guard was shuffling their feet nervously, doing their best not to wither under the weight of the older man’s pointed glare, and Julian offered his neighbor an apologetic smile.

“Sorry about all that, sir,” he said.

The old man huffed and tossed his head. “Just answer your door faster next time,” he snapped, pinning Julian with a dirty look. “ _Some_ of us are trying to sleep.” Annoyed, he jabbed a finger in the guard’s direction. “And don’t let this miscreant go pounding on any other doors like that in this building, you hear? Keep down the racket.”

“Of course,” Julian agreed. “Sorry again.”

“Hmph.” With that, his neighbor stepped back into his own home and slammed the door shut behind him, scowling all the while. 

 _Miscreant_ _,_ the guard mouthed to themselves, frowning. They must not have conducted much business in the South End before, Julian figured, if they hadn’t realized they would likely be met with hostility.

“Can I help you?” he asked the guard gently, now that his neighbor had left them alone. Why a Palace guard had decided to appear at his door around six in the morning, he didn’t know, but there was no need to be impolite.

“Are you Doctor Devorak?” the guard returned.

He nodded. “The one and only,” he confirmed with a wink. 

Unfortunately, the guard didn’t acknowledge his attempt at levity. Frown still firmly fixed on their face, they handed him the letter in their grip; despite his confusion, Julian took it, albeit hesitantly. It was odd for a Palace guard to be delivering his mail—maybe they’d recently been demoted to courier. Even once they’d relinquished the letter into his grasp, the guard continued to linger in his doorway, watching him, their gaze growing more impatient and unimpressed the longer Julian merely watched them back. Were they waiting for him to open to the letter? Awkwardly, the doctor slid his finger underneath the wax seal and pulled a piece of thick, expensive paper from the envelope, flicking glances at the guard as he did so.

The message on the paper had him stopping short. Flummoxed, he read the words over and over again in the hopes that they’d finally start to make sense, but, no matter how many times he scanned the letter’s contents, they refused to rearrange themselves.

The letter was a summons to the Palace: signed by Count Lucio himself, it wasn’t so much an invitation as it was an outright command, containing a non-negotiable request for his presence while providing no other details. Lucio’s bold signature all but leapt out at him from the bottom of the page, and Julian swallowed at the sight of the familiar name, frightened by the prospect of what the Count of Vesuvia could possibly want from him.

“Uh…” He cleared his throat and looked back up at the guard, who raised a brow in question. “Is this a joke, or…?”

“Not as far as I know,” they told him, shrugging unhelpfully. “Anyway, you have ten minutes to gather your things. There’s a carriage outside waiting to take you to the Palace.”

“Wait, but—” All the letter said was that he was expected to arrive at the Palace at some point today. “What about my clinic?”

He couldn’t just up and leave the South End at a moment’s notice, at least not while the Plague was sending hordes of patients through his clinic’s doors every day. He was already buckling under the pressure of having to operate his clinic by himself, what with his one volunteer—a magician whose name and face he couldn’t even remember anymore—having quit after only a few days of working with him. They must have been the single person in Vesuvia apart from doctors willing to expose themselves to Plague victims because, once they’d gone, he’d since been forced to handle everything alone; there was simply _no one_ to whom he could entrust his clinic in the event of his sudden absence. 

Summons from the Count or not, Julian needed more than ten minutes to get things ready.

Again, the guard shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’m under direct orders from Count Lucio to escort you to the Palace as soon as possible.”

At that, the doctor brightened. “Well, _as soon as possible_ could mean _later,_ right?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, but he said to give you ten minutes maximum,” they reiterated. To their credit, they did seem the smallest bit genuinely regretful, probably able to guess that he was worried about being drawn away from treating Plague victims. “And I’d rather not make him wait, if it’s all the same to you.”

With a deep sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose, his hopes rapidly deflating, but he eventually relented with a nod. “Fine,” he conceded, frustrated, letting his hand fall away from his face. Who knew what Count Lucio would do to a guard who’d failed to follow his orders exactly? Julian didn’t want to be responsible for their punishment if he could help it. “I… fine.” He flashed them a strained smile. “Thank you for the whole ten minutes.”

He could easily post a sign to explain the situation on the clinic’s doors. Plus, it wasn’t as if he were the only doctor in Vesuvia with a clinic in the South End—he could include directions to the office of a nearby colleague on the sign, too. It was a hassle and an inconvenience not only to him but also to his patients, but he had no other choice.

Thankfully, he didn’t have much he needed to gather before he was ready to head to the Palace: he wasn’t certain what Count Lucio’s intentions were, so he packed light, stuffing only a writing kit in his coat pocket, not wanting to haul a number of his effects to the Palace only for the Count to tell him he didn’t need them. He briefly debated bringing Brundle with him but soon decided against it. Although she’d proven herself to be less than capable as a guard dog, he knew he’d still feel better with her keeping watch over his things in the clinic. He just had to make sure he returned home in time to feed her.

Though the guard was clearly anxious over hauling Julian to the Palace as quickly as they could, they did graciously allow him to stop at his clinic both to drop off Brundle and to put up a sign. As he hustled Brundle from his home to the clinic, she glared at him for daring to ask her to move, but she obediently plopped down onto her bed in the clinic nonetheless and was fast asleep within seconds. With Brundle settled, he closed and locked the clinic’s doors and hung his hastily written sign, and then the guard was shoving him into the carriage and hollering for the driver to go.

The carriage clattered noisily over the streets, its wheels striking the stones the only sound Julian heard in the interior. The guard who’d fetched him rebuffed each of his attempts to strike up a conversation; after a few more valiant tries that ended in nothing but disappointment, he finally gave up and relaxed back against the seat. For the rest of the ride, the guard sat on the bench across from him, staring at him in sullen silence, their eyes tracking his every movement as if to anticipate and prevent any effort on his part to jump from the carriage and run. Had Count Lucio told his guard to consider Julian a flight risk? That was fair, the doctor supposed—the longer the carriage ride took and the longer he had to endure the guard’s heavy scrutiny, the more tempting escape began to seem.

They neared the Palace, and the two guards stationed at the gates waved down their carriage, instructing the Count’s personal guest to be escorted into the ballroom—where Count Lucio was apparently waiting for him—on foot. Gaping at the Palace’s brightly colorful, elaborate stained glass windows and its tall, imposing spires, Julian mindlessly trailed after the servant that’d gestured for him to follow and had begun to lead him through the entrance. The inside of the Palace was no less beautiful than the outside, its marble corridors long and winding, the notes of his cheap boots clacking against the floor loud in the quiet hallways. His footsteps caught the attention of the various servants scurrying down the halls, each of them turning towards him at the sound and then bowing in greeting before they went on their way; embarrassed at the treatment, he blushed and waved off their formality every time, feeling distinctly out of place.

Unlike the hallways, the ballroom was eerily devoid of people, and the servant guiding him through the Palace brought him to the ballroom’s very center. He’d never ventured into the ballroom during the Masquerades, but, looking around, he could imagine the vivacity and sheer zest for life to which this room had played witness during the festivities, when its space filled to overflowing with partygoers and drunk revelers. 

“Count Lucio will meet you here shortly,” the servant informed him, interrupting his thoughts.

“Er, right.” Julian nodded to himself, hoping he was successful in suppressing his grimace. Distracted as he’d been by the Palace’s grandeur, it’d almost slipped his mind that Count Lucio was the entire reason he was here. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and exited the ballroom, the doors closing behind them with a sense of finality, and Julian was left to anticipate Count Lucio’s arrival alone. It was as blatant an intimidation tactic as anything—keeping him isolated, letting him work himself into more and more of an anxious mess with every minute that ticked by—but, predictably, he wasn’t kept waiting for long. If the Count was famous for one thing, it was his temperamental impatience.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Doctor Jules.”

Startled, Julian whipped around, and his breathing suddenly caught in his chest.

Count Lucio stood at the top of the ballroom’s steps, his figure resplendent in white and a smirk on his face. 

Perhaps in thinking that _impatience_ was Lucio’s defining feature, Julian hadn’t given the man’s penchant for theatrics enough credit.

“How good of you to join me,” Lucio said, his voice echoing throughout the room, even his casual drawl imperious and compelling. Slowly, he sauntered towards his guest, his heels clicking against the staircase with every step and his cape fluttering behind him as he descended. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

That was an understatement—they hadn’t seen each other in _years_. In fact, the last time they’d so much as spoken, Lucio had still had one arm. 

Throat dry, Julian could do nothing but quietly nod in response. He’d known Lucio had somehow managed to replace his missing limb with a functional prosthetic—he’d noticed the various statues of Lucio placed throughout Vesuvia, and he’d even caught the occasional glimpse of Lucio sitting far away in the Count’s private spectator box in the Coliseum—so it wasn’t the golden arm that had him dumbstruck and fumbling for words.

It was finally getting the chance to look at Lucio up close altogether again that’d sent his heart thundering so powerfully he was afraid the other could hear it. When they’d parted years ago, they’d been friends of a sort, despite Lucio’s resentment towards him for cutting off his arm. While Julian hadn’t quite _missed_ his old patient, he was still overwhelmed to have Lucio before him once more. 

They’d both gotten older, but Julian felt that Lucio wore the passage of time far better. Though Lucio had taken to styling his hair and doing his makeup differently, enhancing his regal features and making him truly look the part of _Count of Vesuvia_ instead of _former mercenary,_ he hadn’t lost any of his charm, still so wickedly handsome even with a few new lines around his mouth. He was even grinning at Julian and calling him _Doctor Jules_ the way Julian had always secretly enjoyed, treating him with the same mischievous attitude and ill humor as if nothing had changed at all; it was nearly enough to make Julian forget that Lucio had gone from being his patient to becoming Vesuvia’s mad tyrant.

However, whatever warmth that’d suffused him at seeing an old acquaintance again was snuffed within seconds, once he met Lucio’s eyes.

They were red.

“You… have the Plague,” Julian stammered, his stomach twisting into uncomfortable knots.

Lucio frowned. “So?” he asked. He’d reached the last step and had come to stand directly in front of his guest, not a foot of space between them, and the red sclera of his eyes was even more alarming up close. “Is that all you have to say to me?”

“Uh…” Julian pursed his lips, wracking his mind for something appropriate while Lucio glared at him expectantly, hands on his hips. “Good to see you?”

The Count’s cheeks began flooding with pink in anger. “ _Good_ _to see you_ ,” he spat, voice going shrill. His demeanor swiftly shifted, jumping from menacingly teasing to outright hostile, and Julian winced. How had he not remembered Lucio’s mood swings? For as much as Lucio had joked with him and insisted on playing games with him in the past, he’d just as often screamed at him for amputating his arm, and he’d always switched between the two extremes without warning. “ _Good to see you_? That’s _it_?!”

“You were the one who invited me here,” Julian reminded the other lightly. “I assumed _you_ had something to say?”

Lucio snorted. “I do,” he replied, “but I thought I’d be nice and let _you_ go first.” He rolled his eyes. “I should’ve known you’d just disappoint me. _Again._ ”

Julian flinched. “Um, what?”

“Are you nervous?” Lucio prodded. “Is that it? I mean, you _should_ be—it’s _me,_  after all—but you need to get over it. I’m tired of waiting for you, so hurry up.”

“I-I just got your letter today!” Julian said. He rummaged around in his coat pockets until he produced the summons the guard had delivered that morning, and he held it out to Lucio with a shaky hand. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting long, but…”

Huffing, Lucio snatched the letter from him and tore it down the middle, letting the ripped halves float down to rest on the floor, where he proceeded to stamp on one of them with his heel and grind the paper into the marble. “The letter’s not the important part, Jules.”

After that, he didn’t elaborate, and Julian was officially lost. Not wanting to enrage Lucio any further, he stayed quiet, biting his tongue to the point that it bled, but that only served to make Lucio’s scowl that much more severe.

“ _Fine,_ ” the Count soon hissed. “Be like that.” He tugged his cape tighter around him and crossed his arms, and then he fixed Julian with a glower so venomous it was a wonder that the doctor didn’t immediately drop dead. “Anyway, starting today you’re working for the Palace to search for a cure for the Plague.” Shaking his head, he scoffed. “You better do some good work for me for once. _Don’t_ give me anything like the hack job you did with my arm.”

“Wait, what?” Ignoring the hurt he felt at Lucio’s snide comment, Julian gaped. “But… but I have my clinic—”

“I don’t care about your dinky little clinic!” Lucio snapped. “You work for _me_ now. Besides, doctors are supposed to be smart, right? I’m sure you can figure something out.”

“Count Lucio…” he protested weakly. “I can’t…” He was silenced as Lucio cut a hand through the air, holding up his palm to stop him.

“You _owe_ me, Jules,” the Count told him, gaze unforgiving and flinty, and Julian glanced at the man’s prosthetic, his heart sinking. Sighing, he ducked his head guiltily, looking back up only when Lucio thrust one golden finger against his chest, poking him hard enough to make him take a step back in deference. “Don’t _ever_ forget that.”

* * *

When Nadia decided to take a brief reprieve in the gardens, she’d been fully expecting her favorite space to be empty. 

She knew Asra enjoyed listening to the soft bubbling of the fountain in the same particular stretch of greenery, and sometimes Nadia would even catch him using the water’s surface as a means of talking to his soulmate. To her dismay, he’d always stop as soon as she appeared, quickly leaning away from the water’s surface and inviting Nadia to join him with a nervous smile and a wave, acting as if he thought she would disapprove of him using the fountain to speak with his partner. 

If anything, Nadia was disappointed that Asra hadn’t yet introduced her to his partner when he had such an easy means of doing so, but she later understood why he wanted to keep those fountain conversations to himself: it had happened just the once, but on a certain afternoon she’d been lucky enough to notice Asra before he noticed her and, unaware of her presence, he’d continued talking. His words had been almost painfully sweet—he’d shared his thoughts and feelings so readily, without hesitation, all in a gentle tone so different from the passive one he usually took.

If the fountain happened to be a place where he felt comfortable enough to ask his partner for reassurance and support… well, Nadia wouldn’t begrudge him his privacy. She only wished he’d stop interrupting his conversations because of her; whenever she came across him using fountain, he’d turn to greet her before she could offer to leave, and, although she enjoyed Asra’s company, she couldn’t help but feel bad for pulling him away from his soulmate.

Today, though, she knew Asra would hardly leave the library, since he’d told her as much that morning. She had no chance of encountering him in that spot in the gardens unless he’d changed his mind, so she thought going there to rest would allow her some time alone.

She hadn’t considered that she might find Julian by the fountain instead, yet there he was.

The doctor must have decided to take advantage of today’s fine weather. He’d shed his coat and left it in a careless pile on the ground alongside his boots, and he’d loosened his shirt collar, the edges of it rustling every so often with the occasional breeze. 

He’d perched himself on the lip of the fountain, legs crossed as he hunched over something in his lap and stared at it intently. After a moment, he uncurled slightly and his hand began moving in deliberate strokes, and Nadia realized he was sketching. Every so often, he paused intermittently to inspect his work, scratching at his hair with his stick of lead in thought.

For as much as Nadia thought he looked like a man who had never seen the sun, he seemed more than happy to be outdoors, drawing to his heart’s content—although he’d made the odd decision to keep his gloves on. It put her in mind of Lucio, who’d taken to leaving his shirtsleeves unrolled to the cuffs and covering his wrist at all times.

Nadia observed Julian for a few moments before she chose to join him in the hopes of drawing him into a conversation. In every interaction they’d had so far, he’d gotten nervous and tongue-tied, and Nadia hadn’t been able to learn much about him. Things had flowed better the times Asra had been there to act as a buffer, but Nadia wanted to be able to speak to him on her own. She wondered if Julian would be more willing to talk to her while they were both relaxing in the gardens—it was worth trying.

However, as she approached, Julian failed to look up, concentrating too hard on his sketch to notice her. To Nadia’s amusement, he even had a subject posing for him.

“I see you’ve made a friend, Doctor,” she remarked, and then she had to stifle a laugh when Julian flinched, startled enough to lose his grip on his lead, and whirled around to face her.

She hadn’t thought she’d frighten him so badly. She would’ve apologized, but he settled quickly enough, heaving a deep sigh when he registered that it was her and letting his shoulders drop.

“Oh, Countess,” he greeted, abashed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—um, you…” He shook his head, willing his blush away, then looked back at her, eyes wide with confusion. “Friend?”

Nadia gestured to Camio. The bird had planted himself next to Julian on the fountain’s edge and was preening under the doctor’s attentions, pleased that he was the subject of a sketch. From what Nadia could see of Julian’s work so far, Julian had been spoiling the bird with his focus for a while.

“Oh!” The doctor blinked and reached out his arm, up onto which Camio obediently hopped. Not even once did he vindictively dig his talons into Julian’s flesh—as was his wont with everyone but Lucio—and Nadia’s brows rose to her hairline. “You mean this fine fellow?”

At the words, Camio squawked and tugged on his new friend’s hair but, to Nadia’s surprise, he did so playfully, rather than with his usual intention to rip out strands.

“Sorry, sorry,” Julian laughed, gently batting Camio’s beak away from his head. “You are a _very_ fine fellow. How dare I say otherwise.” He scratched under Camio’s chin. Instead of snapping at Julian the way he did whenever someone other than his owner tried to touch him, Camio merely cooed. 

Delighted, Julian gave the bird a few last scratches before he dropped his hand and turned to address Nadia again. “I’d only been out here for five minutes or so before he found me. I’m sorry if I was keeping him from something important, but he simply wouldn’t stop fussing until I drew him.”

Nadia held back a sigh. _That thing is_ **_definitely_ ** _Lucio’s bird._

“His name is Camio,” she explained. “As you may have guessed, he belongs to the Count. I’ve always found them to be… eerily alike.”

Julian hummed. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not fair,” he said, and he shot the bird on his arm a grin, running a finger along his crest. “Camio here has been silent for far longer than I bet his master ever has.”

Camio screeched, probably leaping to Lucio’s defense, and, while Nadia flinched at the high-pitched sound and shot the bird a glare, Julian’s response was to laugh and chuck him under his beak.

“Relax, you. It was a joke,” the doctor teased. Annoyed, the bird fluttered his wings and resettled, but he did let Julian return to scratching him, even without first nipping the man’s hand.

Nadia looked on as he pet Camio for a bit, amazed at how well Julian was able to handle one of Lucio’s awful pets. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Camio act so sweetly before, not even when the bird was with Lucio himself; then again, Lucio had never spent upwards of an hour drawing his bird, either. She guessed that Camio, much like his owner, had a weakness for portraits of himself, a trait he must have inherited from having been exposed so often to the Count’s arrogant behavior.

“Nevertheless, you are probably right,” she said. Again, Julian started, spooked by the sound of her voice, and he turned back to her with a sheepish blush spreading across his face, appearing as if he’d forgotten she was there. She gave him a smile and nodded to the spot on the fountain beside him. “May I join you?”

“Um. Yes! Of course, Countess,” he said. His eyes went wide and his flush darkened, but he clutched his sketchbook and shuffled over to make room for her to sit, despite his visible flustering.

“Thank you. Now shoo, Camio,” Nadia instructed, waving Lucio’s terrible bird away. If Camio wanted to keep harassing Julian into doing his bidding, he’d have to come back later. “Go bother your owner.”

Camio huffed, indignant at the dismissal, but he finally abandoned his seat on Julian’s arm and flew towards the Palace when Nadia pretended to call for Chandra. The bird had never seemed wary around Nadia herself, but he’d always done his best to evade Chandra, which Nadia felt only served to prove further that Chandra was the superior bird.

If Julian was dismayed by Camio’s departure, he didn’t show it, too busy anxiously staring at Nadia as she sat next to him to notice.

When he remained quiet, she assumed he was waiting for her to speak first. From what she remembered of the things Asra had told her, Julian loved talking—well, what he’d actually said had been that Julian loved the sound of his own voice, but the words had been affectionate despite their insulting nature—so, somehow, she’d have to coax the doctor into it.

“You never mentioned you were an artist,” she noted.

Julian adjusted his tight grip on his sketchbook, shifting in place. “I’m, uh. I’m really not,” he answered. “An artist, I mean. I’m not any good.”

“Your drawing of Camio looked like it was going very well,” she told him.

“Erm…” 

He pulled his sketchbook back, moving it from where he hid it protectively against his chest and holding it up, allowing Nadia an unobstructed view of his work. Even though the sketch had its mistakes and imperfections, it showed her that Julian had at least _some_ skill, even if the shakiness of the lines revealed his lack of confidence. After some time scrutinizing his drawing, he frowned, and he shook his head and laid the sketchbook facedown on his lap. 

“It’s not the _worst_ I’ve ever done,” he admitted reluctantly. “But it’s nothing great, either.” He paused. “Uh, don’t tell Camio I said that.”

Nadia couldn’t help but chuckle. Julian was awkward, but it was in an earnest, endearing way. She could see why Asra spent time with him.

“Nonsense, Doctor,” she said. “I like it. You have a natural talent—all you need is practice. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you come by this hobby?”

“Oh, no, I don’t mind. Truth is, I’ve always drawn a lot in my notes. Diagrams!” he rushed to clarify. “I draw a lot of diagrams. You know, uh, corpses… organs… stuff like that.” He grimaced as he heard what he’d said, realizing it’d sounded vaguely suspicious. “It’s research. Medical research. I’m a doctor. Anyway,” he went on hurriedly, “I figured I ought to try my hand at drawing, uh, healthy, living subjects, and it just kind of… went from there.”

“How very interesting.” Nadia thought it was fitting. Originally, Julian hadn’t overly struck her as the artistic type, but, when he explained it like that, his interest in drawing suited him. Hoping to view more of his art, as well as to find out if he would divulge any more information about himself, she tapped his sketchbook. “Would you be willing to show me anything else?”

Julian blinked at her. “You… want to see more of my doodles?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked him. “I said I like your work, and I don’t _lie,_  Doctor.”

“I-I never said you did!” he replied, holding up a hand in deference, and then he ducked his head and sighed, embarrassed at his overreaction. Avoiding Nadia’s gaze, he began to flip through the pages of his sketchbook, searching for a piece he thought the Countess would enjoy. “Let me just, hmm, take a second… and…” 

Finally, he reached something he considered worth presenting, and he handed Nadia his book with it opened to a page that contained some of his sketches of various flowers.

“They’re all flowers I’ve seen in the gardens here,” he told her. He allowed Nadia a moment to inspect all of the flowers he’d captured before he leaned over and tapped one drawing in particular, his smile fond. “I hardly did them justice, but the blooms on your sweet pea plants… they’re really quite beautiful.”

How odd that Julian had thought to make special mention of the Palace’s sweet peas. Although lavender was her favorite flower, Nadia had always been drawn to sweet peas, lured in by their heavenly scent and their delicate pink petals, and she even had vines of them climbing up the sides of her balcony. The sweet pea in Julian’s sketchbook looked lovingly drawn, as if Julian had dedicated to it more time than he had the other flowers on the page, its lines darker and shading more detailed.

“It’s wonderful, Doctor,” Nadia told him, honest. The care and attention Julian had given this sketch made it spectacular. He blushed at the compliment, but at least he didn’t look away. _It’s… progress,_  she thought generously. “Do you like sweet peas?"

“They’re not my favorite,” he confessed, “but they _are_ the favorite of someone rather important to me, so, you know.” He shrugged. “I’m obliged to like them too.”

“Oh?” Someone special to him? Nadia was immediately intrigued. “Your soulmate?” 

Perhaps it was underhanded that she’d ask such a question when she already knew the answer, but Lucio hadn’t really told her anything noteworthy about the situation. She was aware that Julian didn’t want Lucio, but, because he refused to approach his soulmate and ask him _why_ like an adult, Lucio couldn’t offer anything more besides that. With any luck, she’d be able to use this as a segue to convince Julian to elaborate on what was going on between them. 

At the very least, she wanted to see how Julian would react to any mention of Lucio.

“Uh… no.” Poorly, then. He reacted poorly, collapsing into a fit of coughing interspersed with uneasy, fervent denials. “I—um. No. Not, uh, not my soulmate. No. I don’t… just—no.”

“My apologies,” Nadia answered smoothly, smothering her laugh at the doctor’s endless blathering as best she could. If Lucio were _her_ soulmate, she supposed she’d vehemently deflect any attempt to discuss him, too. It would be cruel of her to prolong his suffering and press the topic. “Please, forgive me for asking.”

“No, no, there’s nothing to forgive! I don’t mind,” he said. “No, I… I didn’t mean my soulmate.” He cleared his throat, trying to recover, and looked down at his open sketchbook. “I meant someone else.”

Something in Julian’s voice caught. He carefully traced the edges of his sweet pea sketch with his gloved fingertips, careful not to smudge the lines.

“It’s my sister,” he murmured, tone wistful. “Pasha—er, Portia. Her favorite flower is sweet peas.”

Nadia froze.

_Portia… likes sweet peas._

Her soulmate liked sweet peas, and she had them spread across the stones supporting her balcony.

Blissfully unaware of how badly he’d just shaken her, Julian continued. “You have a sister yourself, don’t you, Countess?” he asked.

It took Nadia longer than she would’ve liked to pull herself back together. She swallowed, ordering herself not to think about this until later, and returned her full attention to the conversation; Julian had asked her a question, and he was waiting for an answer.

“Sisters,” she corrected. Thankfully, her voice didn’t waver, sounding as steady as it usually did. “Yes. I have six older sisters.”

“Wow _,_ ” Julian whistled lowly. “That must’ve been something else, growing up.”

Nadia resisted the urge to use the opening to complain about her sisters, not when she could be using the conversation for better things.

After all, this was the first instance in which she’d heard Julian talk about Portia, and she had to use the time wisely. This was the only opportunity she had to learn more about her soulmate until the next time Julian mentioned her.

Nadia almost regretted that she had chosen to conceal that she was Portia’s soulmate from her soulmate’s own _brother,_  but the Plague had left her with no other option.

Vesuvia was dangerous, beleaguered by a fatal disease, and she couldn’t risk Portia stepping foot into the city until they’d found the cure. Even if she constantly kept Portia by her side, Lucio contracting the Plague had shown her that the Palace was far from an impenetrable fortress, and she wouldn’t dare put Portia in harm’s way. 

She could leave the city and travel to Portia’s location herself, but, burdened as she was with carrying her city through its darkest days, that wasn’t an option, either. Vesuvia’s people needed her, especially with their Count on his own deathbed, and she couldn’t abandon them.

If Julian gave her a means of contacting Portia—and he _would,_  if he knew, of that she had no doubt—Nadia wasn’t certain if she’d be able to refrain from arranging for them to meet. She’d been dreaming of Portia since she’d discovered what dreams were; exchanging letters wouldn’t satisfy her, not when she’d been so desperate for so long to have Portia in her arms.

But meeting her soulmate in person… the current circumstances made it impossible, and Nadia refused to torture herself. Imagining the possibilities while knowing she couldn’t act on them would eventually drive her to madness.

If she didn’t tell Julian that she and Portia were soulmates, then it wouldn’t occur to him to put the Countess in touch with his sister in the first place—and so he’d never provide Nadia with the temptation of finding a way to meet Portia. 

Besides, Julian had evidently forgotten his sister’s soulmate had the name _Nadia Satrinava,_  anyway. For the sake of everyone, it’d be better if Nadia were _not_ to remind Julian of the specific letters that rested on the back of Portia’s neck. If Nadia found her happiness with Portia before Lucio could annoy Julian into accepting him just to get him to shut up, then Lucio would become even _more_ insufferable.

However, were Julian to bring Portia up himself, she supposed she could permit herself to encourage him to say more.

“Are you and your sister close?” she asked.

Face falling, Julian glanced away. “We used to be,” he said, remorseful. “I haven’t seen her in a long time. I try to keep up with what she’s doing and where she is, but…” He shook his head. “Once this mess with the Plague is over, I think I’d like to show her Vesuvia.”

Nadia’s heart skipped a beat. Portia, here, in a healed Vesuvia… it would be perfect. Maybe, if Lucio did her the favor of dying before the cure was found, she could even _marry_ her.

“It would be Vesuvia’s honor to host your sister,” she said.

Discussing how much he missed his sister had obviously taken a bit of the wind out of his sails, but Nadia’s words had Julian perking right back up.

“That’s kind of you, Countess,” he replied gratefully. “More of an incentive to find the cure, then, hm?”

Nadia agreed wholeheartedly.

“Speaking of…” Julian trailed off. “I guess I should get back to it.” He flashed her smile, seeming like he was genuinely disappointed at having to end the conversation here. 

“Of course, Doctor,” she said. She held his sketchbook out to him. “Don’t forget your things.”

“Thank you.” With his book now in hand, he began to check his pockets, patting them and, when that proved fruitless, using his free hand to rummage through whatever odd assortment of items Nadia suspected he kept in there. Frustrated, he withdrew his hand from his pocket with a frown. “Where is that damn pencil…”

The lead in question was on the ground by his foot, and she helpfully pointed it out to him. “I believe you dropped it.”

“Oh, right, when you…” Face coloring in embarrassment, he coughed, stooping to gather his lead from the grass. “R-Right.”

He slid the lead into his pocket, where Nadia heard it _clink_ against something else. She could barely begin to guess as to what a man this eccentric would deem worth carrying with him.

“Um.” After he’d collected his boots and jacket, the former he actually slid on while the latter he tossed over his shoulder, he came to stand before her, lips pursed, shuffling his feet. “Thank you for the gift of your time today, Countess.”

Nadia smiled, though it was bittersweet. How could such a pleasant man be cursed with an eternity with Lucio? They’d spoken for half an hour at most, and yet she already knew Julian was too good for her husband. The next time Lucio raved about Julian avoiding him, Nadia would have to hold herself back from snapping at him more harshly than usual.

“It was my pleasure,” she returned. A thought occurred to her. “You know, your magician friend and I have made a habit of unwinding on my balcony together. You should join us, Doctor. Both Asra and I would like it if you did.”

“Oh.” Julian’s face flared redder than Nadia had witnessed yet. “If you want me there, then…”

“We do.”

“Then, um, I-I’d love to.” While not traditionally handsome, the doctor was striking when he smiled in a manner that wasn’t self-deprecating. Nadia wished he would do it more often. “I appreciate it.”

“Wonderful. I’ll be in touch.” She nodded. “Good luck with your research, Doctor.”

“Thank you.”

He turned to leave, and Nadia waited until he was walking through the grassy archway to call out to him.

“Oh, and Doctor?” she said.

“Hm?” He stopped and looked back.

“Do you intend to do anything with your sketch of Camio?”

Reflexively, he glanced down at the sketchbook in his hand before answering. “Not necessarily.”

Perfect. “If you do not object, perhaps I could persuade you give the drawing to Count Lucio.” This time, he did not match her smile with one of his own, instead staring at her in shock. “You would make him very happy, I think.”

“O-Oh.” 

He seemed hesitant, but she was certain he’d do as she requested, otherwise she wouldn’t have asked at all. Julian was a kind man, yes, and he deserved better than Lucio; unfortunately for him, he _did_ have Lucio, and, so long as he did, he also had the ability to affect Lucio gravely. Nadia couldn’t resist using him to agitate the man she loathed most. 

That he couldn’t have Julian but he could have Julian’s drawing of a bird would send Lucio into an incomprehensible rage—Nadia thought Lucio’s ego could use the damage, and _Julian_ dealing him that blow would be ideal.

“Um, okay, I guess,” Julian finally relented. “I’ll… do that.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Take care.”

* * *

“Is your mark bothering you, Nadi?”

Nadia hadn’t even realized she’d closed her eyes, but, when she opened them, she was met with the sight of Asra smirking and Julian frowning, the wine they’d spent the past hour drinking on her balcony set aside. Sighing, she let her hand fall away from the back of her neck, shooting Asra a glare as she did so. Unrepentant, Asra merely grinned and passed her the bottle.

“Does you mark regularly bother you, Countess?” Julian asked, because he was kind and helpful, unlike Asra, who every now and then apparently felt compelled to needle her.

“No, Doctor, it does not,” she told him, sending Asra another icy look. 

At the moment, nothing was bothering her except for Asra and his fondness for bringing up her mark around Julian. The magician had agreed with Nadia that it’d be best if she kept it from Julian lest she be tempted to reach out to Portia, but he still thought it entertaining to play with the fact that Julian had totally forgotten the name of his sister’s soulmate. No matter how many times he asked about Nadia’s mark in front of Julian, nothing seemed to be able to shake Julian’s memories loose, and Asra had all but turned it into a game.

It would have annoyed Nadia more than it did, were Julian’s cluelessness not as interesting as it was. Portia was his one and only sister, and the man was still somehow unable to recall that she had _Nadia Satrinava_ —the name of the woman across from whom he was _currently sitting_ —scrawled along the back of her neck. 

It was remarkable, especially when taking into account that Julian was one of the brightest people Nadia knew. He possessed a wealth of facts both useless and useful, but had not even an inkling as to what the name of his sister’s soulmate was. His mind had deemed it not worth remembering, apparently, probably losing it in between how to treat a cold and whatever factoid about figs he’d told Nadia yesterday.

“You know,” Asra remarked with a false air of casualness, interrupting her musings, and Nadia was instantly wary, “I still haven’t seen your mark, Countess. Won’t you show us?”

Easy for him to ask, she thought uncharitably—they’d all seen _Asra’s_ mark, but who hadn’t? Asra had his soulmate’s name written over his heart and he bore the fine letters proudly, purposefully favoring shirts with low necklines to afford anyone who looked at him a view. 

She’d yet to meet Asra’s soulmate for herself, but Nadia imagined them to be quite extraordinary. They had to be, for Asra, usually a private person, to flaunt their name on his skin the way he did.

“Absolutely not. We cannot all be you, Magician,” she scoffed, though the sound was fond. “I have to maintain _some_ aura of mystery, and I’m afraid I have no magic with which to do it.”

Asra laughed. “If you say so.”

Exasperated, she did her best not to be juvenile and roll her eyes. “Why must you always badger _me_ about _my_ mark,” she sighed. Did he not wish to see Julian’s? At least he knew what Nadia’s said, even if he’d never laid eyes on it himself; meanwhile, she suspected Asra did not share her knowledge that Julian’s said _Lucio._  “You have not yet subjected Doctor Devorak to your antics.”

“I haven’t, have I,” Asra hummed in agreement. The blood drained from Julian’s face as the magician turned his focus on him, purple gaze scrutinizing him from head to toe. “I don’t know…”

While occasionally Nadia did enjoy watching Asra bait Julian, likening it to a snake toying with the mouse that would make its next meal, she was not in the mood for it right now. Now that the discussion had put the idea into her head, she’d realized she actually _did_ want to see Julian’s mark for herself, wondering whether the writing resembled the chicken scratch that formed Julian’s name on Lucio’s wrist.

“Won’t you satisfy our friend’s bizarre desire to see a mark not his own tonight, Doctor?” she asked. Even though she _also_ wanted to see Julian’s, it seemed better to blame Asra. “What of yours?”

However, she had to admit—she hadn’t asked _entirely_ because she wanted to see his mark. She was also curious as to how Julian would react to the question in the first place. Would the good doctor tell the truth and confess to Lucio being his soulmate, or would he insist on continuing to hide it? 

If he took the latter route, she’d be disappointed by the loss of the chance to learn more, but she’d understand: surely, having _Lucio_ for a soulmate was embarrassing, to say the least. Being tied by fate to a self-obsessed lunatic was most definitely something worth concealing by any means necessary. 

But if Julian _did_ show them his mark… Would he share his feelings on the matter? Would he reveal why he hadn’t yet pursued Lucio, despite what his wrist said? Nadia had her own reasons for avoiding Lucio’s attentions, yes, but presumably Julian had _his,_  too.

She waited for his answer, masking how closely she watched the doctor in anticipation with cool nonchalance.

At her direct question, heat went rushing back into Julian’s face and his hand flew to his wrist, gripping the exact spot where Nadia knew his name rested on Lucio’s skin. 

It drew her attention to his ever present gloves, and, suddenly, she understood why Julian never took off his gloves, besides the obvious reasons: as a doctor, Julian did a great deal of work with his hands, from mixing poultices to taking notes, so his wrists were likely often in his line of sight. 

Nadia wasn’t sure if she’d be able to stomach constant glimpses of Lucio’s name on her skin without eventually having to cover it, either.

“Ah…” Julian cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s, um… personal.”

“Of course,” she relented easily, unwilling to press the subject. Julian had quickly become uncomfortable to the point that his hands had begun to shake, and she regretted letting her curiosity get the better of her. “My apologies.”

“No, no,” he protested. “I merely…” With a sigh, he looked down at his wrist, fingers resting over where Nadia—and likely Asra, too, by now, if he’d taken Julian’s fidgeting to mean anything—knew his mark laid. “I’ve only shown it to a few people in recent years.”

“You’re under no obligation to show me, Doctor, I assure you. Please, forget I ever asked.”

Julian surprised her by shaking his head. “No,” he said again, “it’s… it’s fine. I should talk about it, anyway. I haven’t in a long time—I miss being able to.” He glanced up, expression vulnerable. “I mean… we’re friends, after all. Right?”

 _Oh, the poor man._  Even though Nadia rarely felt the desire to discuss her own soulmate with someone else, she knew that, if she _were_ to, she’d at least be able to find a willing—if not attentive—audience in Lucio, who she supposed was better than nothing, albeit barely. She still overwhelmingly despised him, but over the years Lucio had proven himself to be a reliable confidant, if nothing else. 

Asra, too, would jump at the chance to lend his ear, but she was positive that whatever she told him would also make its way to his soulmate.

As options, Asra and Lucio were both acceptable at best, but at least she had them in the first place. She wondered what it had been like for Julian, having to go without that for so long, and she was instantly flooded with guilt. 

Here was a person in desperate need of friendship, and Nadia had intended to take advantage of their closeness to pry into something obviously private and painful.

She felt awful.

“Indeed we are,” she told him, allowing herself to smile. She couldn’t outright apologize, so a vaguely soft smile would have to suffice.

“But that doesn’t mean you have to show us, Ilya,” Asra added, setting a comforting hand on Julian’s shoulder. “If all you want is to talk about it, then that’s all you have to do.”

Nadia watched the line of Julian’s throat as he swallowed nervously.

“It’s really nothing terrible,” he murmured quietly after a moment, tone somewhat bashful. “I’m blowing things out of proportion.”

Asra nodded. “You _do_ have a tendency to do that, yes.”

Nadia wouldn’t have made the quip herself, but she was glad to see that it had Julian cracking a grin, even if it was less sharp than was typical for him. Asra’s gentle teasing seemed to soothe him, the line of his shoulders relaxing and his fingers falling away from the underside of his wrist. Theirs was an odd dynamic, Nadia had come to realize.

Now calmer, Julian took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh.

“I’ve shared stories of my travels with you before, haven’t I?” he asked. 

Nadia and Asra nodded. While Julian’s flair for dramatics could be tiring on occasion, it also made him one of the best storytellers Nadia had encountered, and she greatly enjoyed when he’d take it upon himself to meet Lucio’s demands for entertainment by narrating various tales of his. 

The nights Julian recounted his adventures were some of the few times Lucio would actually stop his incessant complaining and posturing, and would give someone his undivided attention. Even Lucio’s horrible _dogs_ would listen, sitting calmly beside their master and all of them—Lucio included—entranced by the cadence of Julian’s voice.

“I’ve told you about the places I’ve seen—the people I’ve met,” the doctor went on. “I’ve been nearly _everywhere_ in this world, and yet… I still find myself alone.” 

He cast his gaze back down at his wrist, his smile slipping. Nadia frowned in confusion.

“I just can’t help but think that it’s not meant to be,” he said. “For me to not have met them yet, when I’ve had more opportunities to search for them than most…” He paused, and, when he next spoke, his voice was so soft Nadia had to strain to hear him. “Perhaps fate made a mistake, and no one out there is truly meant for me.”

He fell silent after that, likely expecting Nadia and Asra to give him some comfort or encouragement, but Nadia couldn’t do much more than stare at him in shock. 

At least she had her answer, as unsatisfying as it was. Although he’d claimed Nadia and Asra were his friends, Julian _still_ didn’t trust them enough not to lie. 

It was disheartening until she reminded herself just who, exactly, Julian’s soulmate was. 

If Julian wanted to take that secret to the grave, then Nadia would indulge him. He’d spoken so miserably of his belief that he was destined for solitude that it had to have been true, but there was no doubt in Nadia’s mind that, between a future _alone_ or a future with _Lucio,_  loneliness was the lesser evil. Julian’s words made sense.

The Plague possibly laid at fault, too, since no one wanted the beginning of their relationship to feature watching their soulmate slowly _die_. It’d be unexpectedly callous of him if it were true, but maybe Julian had decided that Lucio wasn’t worth the inevitable heartbreak.

Nadia could hardly blame him.

“You’ll find them someday, I’m sure,” she said, trying to console him, even if all she had was an empty platitude. In an attempt to lighten the mood, she smiled and added, “Just as I hope to find mine. As I said earlier—not all of us can be Asra.”

Despite the somber turn the evening had taken, Asra immediately beamed at the mention of the good fortune he’d had with _his_ soulmate, and Julian snorted.

“No,” the doctor agreed. “I suppose not.”

“Maybe we can help you, Ilya,” Asra said. Thinking of his soulmate must have put him in a charitable mood, for him to offer his help so readily.

Julian’s eyes darted to Asra’s face, trying to gauge the sincerity of Asra’s suggestion, and Asra graced him with what seemed to be a genuine smile that promised his support. 

The doctor wavered, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He was making a good show of considering it, Nadia thought.

“Do you really think you could?” he eventually asked.

“Of course.” Asra nodded confidently, and he turned to Nadia with an expectant look. “Nadi?”

“Of course,” she repeated. “I _am_ the Countess, am I not?”

Tossing one last grateful glance her way, Asra faced Julian again, settling his hand on the other’s shoulder like he had earlier. “We _want_ to help, if you’ll let us,” he said. He squeezed Julian’s shoulder once and let go. “It wouldn’t be a burden at all.”

Nadia expected him to say no, to thank Asra and her for their offer but decline anyway. Instead, Julian awkwardly answered, “Oh… uh, o-okay.”

She just barely managed to stop herself from frowning openly at him. For him not to share the identity of his soulmate with them or show them his mark was one thing, but for him to send them on a wild goose chase for someone they all _already_ _saw every day_? That was another thing entirely. 

Asra, on the other hand, was clearly pleased. “Will you tell us their name?” he asked. “Nadi and I will do what we can right away.”

Julian coughed, flustered, and shifted nervously where he sat. “At this point I think I ought to just… show you,” he muttered, and he pulled at the fingers of his right glove, removing it hurriedly before he could change his mind.

“Doctor—” Nadia warned, but cut herself off once she caught sight of Julian’s bare wrist.

_Montag._

The name on his skin read _Montag._

“It’s an unusual name,” Julian said, brushing his fingertips over the letters with care and reverence, “but I’m, well. I’m an unusual person. It suits me. I hope it suits them.”

The staggering amount of _love_ with which he regarded his mark made Nadia sick. She recalled his words from earlier: he worried fate had erred, that he had no soulmate meant for him and he was destined to be alone, but it was obvious in the way he caressed his mark that he believed himself meant for Montag, regardless.

The yearning in his eyes as he traced the name on his wrist was too raw—too _honest_ —for him to be faking it. No one, not even Julian, was that great an actor. 

 _I hope it suits them,_  he’d said. 

He truly had no idea.

 _Lucio, you’re a_ **_fool_** _,_  she swore, closing her eyes and trying to rein in her fury.

Asra and Julian continued to speak as she did her best to calm down. By the time she opened her eyes again, Julian had replaced his glove, and he was watching her with concern. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Asra shoot her a quizzical glance, but the look was gone from his face as soon as it had appeared.

“Another headache?” Julian asked, lips pursed in sympathy.

Nadia appreciated the excuse, even if he’d given it to her unknowingly. “Yes,” she confirmed. “My apologies, but I had best retire to bed.”

“Oh, of course! I should get back to my studies, anyway,” Julian said. He smiled, always so courteous to her, and Nadia couldn’t bear to look at his face for a second longer. “Goodnight, Countess. If the pain gets any worse, please let me know.”

“I will. Thank you, Doctor. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Ilya,” Asra said, but something in his voice rang hollow, and, when Nadia turned to him, he raised a brow at her in question.

They stood and made to leave her balcony, but, while Julian sketched a theatrical bow and then departed from her chambers altogether, Asra hung back, likely in the hopes of speaking to her alone.

The magician did not disappoint. As soon as Julian’s footsteps could no longer be heard, Asra turned to her and said, with no uncertainty, “You know Montag.” It wasn’t a question so much as it was a statement.

Nadia sighed, bringing a hand up to rub her temples. Damn Asra and his perceptiveness. Now she really _was_ developing a headache.

She never should have looked through Lucio’s things. From the moment she’d first met Lucio until the moment she’d looked at Julian’s mark, she’d seen Lucio be referred to as Montag exactly _once_ : it’d been in a letter from his mother, and Lucio hadn’t taken it well.

The spot in which Nadia found herself now, having to reconcile everything she knew… she figured this was a belated punishment for having read Lucio’s mail behind his back.

 _I hope Portia is faring better than I am,_  she thought to herself, grimacing.

“Yes,” she confirmed. Exhausted, she sat on the edge of her bed, and she didn’t protest when Asra sat next to her. “I do know Montag.” Regretfully, she added, “We all do.”

Asra inhaled sharply, his expression darkening. “Who is it?” he asked.

She met his eyes. Anger had begun to simmer in his gaze, lit by a spark that flared to life only for one specific person, and it was plain to see that he’d managed to find the answer himself. She wondered how he’d guessed it—was their friend’s luck truly so notoriously rotten?

Nadia shook her head. “I think you already know.”

At her words, Asra let out a harsh breath, outrage extinguished in seconds. Although he’d quickly realized who Nadia had meant, he must have still been clutching onto some vain hope that he’d turn out to be wrong, but now he was forced to admit otherwise. No sooner than the hatred left his expression, an anguished pity took its place, and he slumped forward, resting his head in his hands.

“Oh, _Ilya,_ ” he whispered, voice catching. His fingers tightened in his hair for a moment before he sighed once more and dropped his arms. His eyes were glassy, tears building slowly, and he was unsuccessful in blinking them away. “Lucio is an idiot…”

“I could not agree more.”

They sat together in silence for a few minutes, the stillness broken only by Asra’s sighing as he tried to get his emotions under control. Wordlessly, Nadia left him to it, trying to give him as much privacy as she could while they occupied the same space, not wanting to overstep. Much like herself, Asra was a reserved person; she knew _she’d_ prefer it if he simply ignored any unintentional emotional display of hers, so she extended the same courtesy to him.

Eventually, his breathing evened out as his composure steadily returned, but his expression remained troubled.

Something clearly still bothered him, and Nadia let out an inquisitive hum to encourage him to speak.

“Marks have the ability to change, don’t they?” he asked. She conceded the point with a nod, and Asra’s brows pinched together in confusion. “If a person’s soulmate were to take a new name, then their mark would reflect that.” He wavered, mulling it over once more before he swore under his breath. “I don’t get it. Why does Julian’s mark say Montag and not Lucio?”

Nadia frowned, the question starting to make her ponder the same. 

Asra was right: marks transforming to reflect new identities was a documented phenomenon. A few books in the library discussed it at length, and Nadia even knew people to whom it had happened.

Once Lucio had abandoned his old name, the name on Julian’s wrist should have altered itself to match, and yet the doctor’s mark had stayed the same.

Suddenly, Asra stiffened, and he turned to Nadia with a look of dread. “Do you think Lucio knows?” he asked. When Nadia raised a brow, he clarified, “What if Lucio doesn’t know that Julian’s mark doesn’t actually say _Lucio_?”

“… He doesn’t,” she told Asra. “He’s whined to me numerous times about Julian rejecting him, and he’s always been a terrible liar.”

“And Julian doesn’t know Lucio has _his_ name,” Asra finished. He huffed a short, quiet laugh in disbelief. “This is a disaster.”

That, Nadia realized with encroaching horror, was an understatement. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly coming together in her mind, and the whole they formed promised nothing good: unless Julian were somehow to discover that Montag and Lucio were one and the same, then the burden of bringing the truth to light was entirely… on _Lucio,_  who was the most stubborn, selfish bastard Nadia had ever had the misfortune to meet. 

Lucio always insisted on making things much more difficult than they had to be and this, it seemed, was no exception. He’d already convinced himself Julian was rejecting him, and he was too much of a coward to just _ask_.

He’d never approach Julian about their marks so long as he thought there was a chance he’d be turned down. Strangers declining to join him in bed he could take, but to offer his soulmate _all_ of himself only to be told _no_ … he wouldn’t risk it. He was too focused on protecting himself and his ego to so much as even _consider_ it. What Lucio needed was a reason worth swallowing his pride, and Julian could give him one if he just let himself take it.

It was either that, or continue on the same path he was stumbling down now and end up dying alone and bitter, with nobody to blame but himself.

Nadia had an idea as to which Lucio would inevitably choose, but she hoped he would, for once, prove her wrong.

“We can’t tell them—either of them,” she said. Her voice had gone the slightest bit hoarse with emotion, and she coughed lightly to clear it. “It’s not our place.”

It would be too intrusive by far, and Lucio frankly wasn’t worthy of it. If the Plague claimed him before he got over himself and gave Julian a chance to do the same, then it’d serve him right, no matter how unfair it’d be to Julian in turn. Soulmates were a matter of the heart, and Lucio deserved no help in fixing the mess he’d made of his.

Truthfully, it was only for Julian’s sake that Nadia wanted Lucio to succeed. She felt Julian would be better off without him—wouldn’t they all be—but her heart had broken when the doctor had shared his fear that fate had deemed him unloveable. Someone out there _did_ have Julian’s name on their skin, and Lucio owed him that knowledge at the very least.

And… Julian was Portia’s _brother._  She was sure Portia wanted him to be happy, so Nadia wanted him to be happy, too.

If only the person who could make Julian the happiest wasn’t _Lucio_.

“You’re right,” Asra agreed, even though he said it reluctantly. “We shouldn’t say anything. But I’m still curious as to why Julian’s mark hasn’t changed…” 

“By all means, feel free to use the library to look into it if you like,” she suggested. Asra was liable to find the answer faster and more easily than she could. “Whatever resources you need are yours, my dear Magician.” 

A quick look outside showed her the lateness of the hour, and she gladly welcomed it, relieved to finish this conversation and go to sleep.

“Will you be staying in the Palace tonight?” she asked.

“Oh, I…” Asra’s cheeks went hot, a guilty flush creeping over his features, and his hand instinctively fluttered to rest over the mark on his chest. The smile he gave Nadia was weak and sheepish. “Thank you, but I should go. I think I was supposed to be home a while ago.”

 _Of course._ Nadia had expected no less. For someone who’d cultivated for himself such an air of inscrutability, he’d become rather predictable.

“Take a carriage,” she said. Although Asra’s soulmate was undoubtedly used to how often their other half lost track of time, Nadia refused to keep them waiting a moment longer than they had to, and she held up a hand to forestall any of Asra’s token protests. “I won’t have your partner worry about you any more than they already do if I can prevent it.”

“If you’re sure. Thank you, Nadi.” Asra reached over and gripped her hand for a moment. “See you tomorrow?”

She nodded. “I look forward to it. Give my best wishes to your partner and to Faust.”

“Will do.” 

He flashed her a smile before going to the balcony to fetch his things. When he returned, he was wearing his terribly unfashionable hat and scarf, and he had his bag slung over his shoulder; he looked every part the mysterious, wandering magician, and, while it fit him, it also made him the antithesis of stylish. Nadia had sent him home in various flattering outfits, clothes that highlighted just how handsome he was, and yet he always came back to the Palace in _that_. She wondered how his soulmate could let him out of the house, knowing he was dressed like that. 

As if he could sense her thoughts, Asra tugged his scarf down and sent her a smirk. “Goodnight, Countess,” he said. “Until tomorrow.”

Nadia sighed, closing her eyes wearily. Tomorrow, everything would still be the same: the Plague would still be ravaging Vesuvia; Lucio would still be obnoxious and dying; Julian would still be woefully uninformed; Asra would still be wearing… that; and Nadia would still have to deal with it all.

_Lovely._

“Goodnight,” she answered, but Asra had already left.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "every 3 days” i said. lol sike turns out business homework bored me to tears so i just decided to post the next bit of this since i already had it written. kids, don't study business in college.

Spending time alone with Count Lucio was, in a word, undesirable.

So far, Julian had been luckier than most in avoiding any one-on-one interactions with him: Asra complained about the private tarot readings Lucio demanded of him, and, when Nadia was unavailable, chances were that she was busy with Lucio, the two of them sequestered away from the bustling of the Palace to assess the current state of Vesuvia. 

Unlike his friends, Julian had always been met with at least one other person besides the Count whenever he’d stepped foot into the man’s wing. On the occasions Lucio wanted nothing more than to hear a song on the vielle, something for which he really only needed Julian, Asra and Nadia were still forced to join him in the audience; and, on the even _rarer_ occasions Lucio admitted his own fallibility and requested medical assistance, Julian treated him only while under Valdemar’s unsettling gaze. 

He’d been tempted to let it go, remembering what Mazelinka had told a much younger him years ago about gift horses and mouths and all that, but eventually the oddity of never being alone with Lucio became too much to ignore. By about the tenth time he was the first to arrive to Lucio’s chambers for a game of whist only to find the doors locked, he couldn’t help but wonder if his ability to evade Lucio’s single-minded focus was due less to luck and more to _Lucio_ himself. For what reason would Lucio have locked the doors besides not wanting to talk to Julian without someone else there?

It was as if _Lucio_ was the one avoiding _him_ , rather than the other way around. 

He’d dismissed the thought as soon as it had occurred, deeming it ridiculous. Lucio had no reason to avoid him and, even if he did, Julian doubted he’d take it. Lucio was abrasive and confrontational at best and downright vicious at worst, and the Plague had hardly softened his attitude even though it had taken its toll on his strength. If the Count had a serious problem with him, Julian was certain Lucio would solve it by simply killing him. 

Despite that, whenever Julian was faced with Lucio’s locked doors or had to listen to Asra and Nadia’s Lucio-centric complaints, the idea that Lucio was _deliberately_ keeping him at arm’s length still wormed its way back to the forefront of his mind.

Now, standing idly in the gardens and waiting for none other than Count Lucio to appear, he wished he hadn’t questioned Lucio’s apparent avoidance of him… or at least hadn’t done so aloud where Nadia could hear him.

“Perhaps you’d consider taking our beloved Count for a stroll in the gardens, then, if you’re so concerned,” Nadia had suggested in response to his musing on the subject. Julian’s stomach had immediately plummeted at the sight of her smirk. “The fresh air might do him some good.”

“Erm… No, it’s fine—” he’d tried protesting.

“Please, Doctor, I insist,” she’d cut him off, eyes twinkling with a kind of mischief more suited to Asra. “Count Lucio will _gladly_ spend some time alone with you.” She’d nodded. “Yes, I think tomorrow afternoon in the gardens would be best. I’ll ensure that it happens.”

Julian had spent the rest of the night trying to dissuade her, explaining over and over again that what he felt towards Lucio was more mere curiosity than anything else, but it had been like talking to a brick wall. Nadia had convinced herself that what Julian was feeling for the sick Count was, in fact, something vaguely resembling _concern_ , and she had refused to be swayed, leaving Julian both frustrated by and in awe of her persistence. Rather than spring to his rescue, Asra—the traitor—had just laughed.

At least Lucio would be meeting him in a public space, Julian figured, watching a nearby servant clip and shape a hedge. While it was doubtful that anyone would _stop_ Lucio from strangling him if the Count decided he’d had enough, there would still be witnesses, and Julian had spent far too long preparing his last words only for no one to hear them.

He’d been waiting upwards of a half hour for Lucio to appear when the servant working close to him suddenly let out a high-pitched squeak and scurried away, taking off towards the Palace, their clippers forgotten on the ground. He stooped and slid the clippers into his pocket, making a mental note to return them to that particular servant later, before turning to see what had scared the servant so badly in the first place.

As he’d guessed, Lucio was steadily approaching, Mercedes and Melchior at his heels. 

Julian brightened, pleased that the Count had brought his dogs. As poorly behaved as they were, they were still unfairly cute, and Julian had a not-so-secret soft spot for Mercedes in particular. According to the servants, she tended to be less friendly than Melchior, but he’d never gotten that impression: while Melchior was wary towards him more often than not, Mercedes, on the other hand, had become an absolute sweetheart for him when the doctor had helped her with a splinter in her paw. She obviously hadn’t forgotten the favor he’d gladly done for her, her tail always wagging whenever she encountered him, and right now was no exception. As soon as she spotted him, she barked cheerfully, tongue lolling from her mouth in the impression of a smile.

Lucio, however, did not seem at all as enthused to be in the gardens as his dogs were, but he did physically _look_ better than Julian had seen him in quite some time: he’d taken a bath and shaved and combed his hair, and he was wearing new clothes, although he’d forgone the makeup. He was still visibly ill—his skin a sickly pale, frame frailer than it’d ever been, and eyes completely bloodshot—but it had become easier to see that he was indeed the man depicted beautifully in multiple paintings throughout the Palace.

Against his better judgment, Julian still thought Lucio handsome. Vesuvia’s Count had always been more attractive than most, but for him to retain even a sliver of his good looks even in the face of the Plague… it was remarkable.

Flushing, Julian looked away from him and down at his dogs instead, extending a hand to greet them as they reached him before Lucio did. Melchior permitted one light pat on the head before he shook off his touch and trotted away, back to Lucio’s side, but Mercedes gleefully allowed him to lavish on her his attention, baring her teeth in a grin as Julian scratched behind her ears. When he finally went to pull his hand away, she growled and nudged him in the side none too gently.

 _Spoiled girl_ , he thought, but it was terribly fond, and he relented with a smile and indulged her in a few more strokes of her fur. Even once she’d allowed him to stop, she remained beside him, warm against his leg, and Lucio glared at her in betrayal as he stepped close.

Julian cleared his throat. “Uh… good afternoon,” he said, uncertain. 

Lucio, in the middle of unrolling the sleeve over his mechanical arm to match the other, barely spared him a glance. “Jules,” he answered.

Julian frowned, looking on with worry— _professional_ worry—as Lucio finished adjusting his cuffs.

“Oh, um, are you cold?” he asked, reaching for the buttons of his coat. 

It was warm, but he’d stuck to his usual attire, unsure of what Lucio’s reaction would be if he were to dress casually, which meant he had an extra layer to spare. The chills weren’t good for anyone, but they especially weren’t so for someone with already such poor health; if Lucio _was_ cold, then Julian was ready to herd him back towards the Palace and to the nearest fireplace.

His hands stilled and fell away from his jacket once he caught sight of Lucio’s scowl.

“ _No_ , I’m not _cold_ ,” Lucio snapped. “Keep your dumb coat—it smells like a morgue anyway.” He huffed. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that thing.”

Julian suppressed a wince at the other’s poor choice of words—refusing to be caught dead in something was a bold statement from someone so close to dying—but he otherwise ignored it. Even for Lucio, the words had been spoken particularly harshly; it was an indicator that the man was in a foul mood. Julian decided not to antagonize him as best he could, and that meant overlooking snide comments and smiling anyway.

“So, uh…” Lucio was staring at him impatiently, tapping his foot, and Julian tried not to wither under his glare. “Um. I. Well…”

 _Say something,_ he berated himself as an awkward silence settled between them. Lucio was apparently opposed to saying something himself, instead preferring to watch him squirm. 

Had Lucio ever made him so flustered before? Surely not.

Julian shook his head. “Nadia told me you’d enjoy some fresh air,” he eventually managed to spit out.

Lucio raised a finely sculpted brow. “Nadia?” he repeated.

 _Shoot_. “Um, the Countess,” Julian hastily amended. “Countess Nadia, I mean. She said you’d like to spend some time in the gardens and, well, you like roses, right? I thought we could…” He wasn’t aware if Nadia had told Lucio that this outing was _her_ idea and _not_ Julian’s, and he wasn’t too interested in finding out. “I thought we could start there.”

Unimpressed, Lucio scrutinized him for a moment, heavy gaze roving over him from head to toe, before he scoffed. “ _Fine_ ,” he conceded, though it was more of a growl than anything. He tossed a bitter, venomous glance over his shoulder in the direction of the Palace. “Noddy’ll be mad if I tell you to get lost.”

Julian’s smile wavered. Lucio’s attitude was essentially all the proof he’d needed to confirm his belief that, _yes_ , Lucio _had_ been avoiding being alone with him and was here only to appease his wife, but it hurt all the same. While it was true that he had no affection for Lucio, either, he still hadn’t _truly_ been expecting the disdain to be so mutual. 

Lucio was… _Lucio_ , but Julian had been nothing but polite to him, even despite their rocky first meeting.

Was it because he hadn’t found the cure to the Plague yet? If it was that, then Julian thought it highly unfair. _Asra_ hadn’t found the cure to the Plague yet, either, and Lucio still wanted _his_ company. And Asra went home to his soulmate almost every night! Did Lucio not know how many nights Julian had sacrificed in favor of working in the Palace dungeons with Valdemar, reading and taking notes until his eyes and fingers hurt, all to help _him_?

No—Lucio _definitely_ knew. 

He probably just didn’t care.

Julian wondered why the realization stung. Why did it _matter_ , what this abhorrent man thought of him?

Unfortunately, the answer was right there, glinting golden in the sunlight, and Julian swallowed against the rising tide of shame that threatened to consume him every time he caught a glimpse of Lucio’s prosthetic.  _You owe me_ , Lucio had said.

He’d failed Lucio before, and he owed it to him not to fail him again.

“You know, Jules,” Lucio said, abruptly jerking Julian away from his quiet reflections, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

At the sound of Lucio’s voice, Julian blinked, surprised when he suddenly found himself surrounded by roses. It seemed he’d mindlessly followed Lucio to their spot in the gardens while he’d been trapped within his own thoughts. Thankfully, Mercedes hadn’t abandoned her post next to him, still pressed up against his leg, and her presence was grounding.

He shook his head, clearing it. Wallowing in misery over being hated by a person he hated in turn could wait until later.

“Yes, sir?” he asked.

Lucio crossed his arms. “Your picture of Camio…” he began. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Do what?”

“Uh, _draw_? What else?”

“Oh.” _Ask a stupid question_. “I can’t, really. Draw, that is.”

“So you gave me something you think is bad?”

“I-I didn’t say that!” Julian held up his hands in surrender. “Please, I didn’t mean it, um, like… like that. I just… uh…”

At his stammering, Lucio rolled his eyes. “Well, whatever,” he interrupted, graceless. “You practice a lot, don’t you? Nadia said she saw your sketchbook.”

“I mean, if I have the time,” Julian responded noncommittally. He had a feeling that, if he’d just said _yes_ , Lucio would have berated him for not focusing on his Plague research.

Lucio frowned. “So then why you haven’t drawn _me_?”

Whatever Julian had been expecting, it hadn’t been _that_. He quickly looked away from the roses and over at Lucio, startled.

“I…” He fumbled for a response. “That is… um…”

It would be a lie to claim it was because he didn’t want to, even to himself. Lucio’s angles were sharp, his features strong and expressive—if Lucio were anyone else, sketching him would have almost sounded… enjoyable. 

“I’m afraid I don’t yet have the skills to do you justice,” Julian finally said. It was true, after all: Lucio’s likeness had already been rendered impeccably in a number of portraits, and Julian’s rough sketches couldn’t compare.

Lucio wasn’t satisfied with his answer. “Practice makes perfect, doesn’t it?” he retorted. “ _I’m_ the most perfect thing in Vesuvia, so you should just draw me. You’ll get better in no time.”

“You…” Julian paused. Lucio wouldn’t trust him as a doctor—his _actual_ profession, something he’d been studying for years—but he’d trust him as an _artist_? “You want me to draw you?”

“I am very generously giving you that honor, yes,” Lucio replied. “Bring your sketchbook the next time you and me and Noddy and Asra get together and draw me then.”

Even though it didn’t sound as if he had much of a choice, Julian agreed. “I—Okay,” he promised. “I’d, uh. I’d like that.”

“Of course you would, it’s _me_ we’re talking about.”

Mercedes barked.

“Oh, right.” Lucio nodded to her. “You should give me a picture of Mercedes and Melchior, too.”

As if to pester him into agreement, Mercedes tugged on Julian’s glove, but she was considerate enough not to pull on the one that covered his mark. Smiling, Julian gently pushed her away, scratching under her chin before he dropped his hand. 

“How could I say no?” At this rate, he’d soon run out of pages in his sketchbook.

“Good—I knew you wouldn’t be so stupid as to turn me down.” Flashing the doctor a menacing grin, Lucio held out a hand to Mercedes, who obediently padded over to him. “Anyway, I’m going to go. I’ve probably wasted enough of my time with you that Noddy won’t lecture me if I head back now.”

“Oh, you’re leaving?” It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes since they’d first started their walk. Was Lucio tired? Had even a _stroll_ in the gardens taxed him? If it had, that did not bode well. Troubled, Julian moved to trail after him. “Are you okay? Do you need me to walk you to your chambers?”

“Do I need you to—” Lucio shot him a dirty look. “Excuse me? _No_ , I don’t need you to walk me to my chambers.”

He hesitated. “But—”

“Shut up, you’re giving me a headache.” The other cut him off ruthlessly, tone poisonous, holding up a hand to stop him. “If you’re _that_ desperate to do something for me, why don’t you go do your _job_.” 

Julian’s mouth clicked shut. “R-Right,” he said, ducking his head. No matter how often the quick changes in Lucio’s volatile moods gave him whiplash, he was still left a bit rattled every time it happened. “I’ll… do that.”

“And next time you see Nadia? Tell her you had fun,” Lucio ordered. “She’ll be annoyed with me if you don’t and I’ll have your head.”

Nervously, Julian swallowed. “Understood.” He _was_ awfully attached to his head, both mentally and physically, and the Count wasn’t one for empty threats.

Lucio narrowed his eyes, the warning in them dangerous, and then let his expression relax once he was positive Julian was feeling sufficiently terrorized. “Let’s make sure we don’t have to do this again,” he said, nodding. “See you, Jules.”

Before Julian could return his farewell, Lucio had already spun on his heel and had begun walking away, his dogs following him. As they neared the exit to the gardens, Mercedes unexpectedly stopped and looked back, and she yapped happily when Julian met her eyes. Chuckling, Julian waved goodbye to her.

Even from a distance, he could see Lucio’s face turn a blotchy red in anger once the Count realized one of his beloved hounds had turned their attention away from him. 

“ _Mercedes_!” Lucio hollered.

After gracing Julian with one last bark, Mercedes hurried back to her owner. Furious, Lucio took a moment to glare at Julian as if the doctor were to blame for distracting his dog, and then he huffed and continued storming towards the Palace, servants scrambling out of his path.

Shaking his head, Julian reminded himself to take a day off to visit Brundle sometime soon before setting out to find the servant whose clippers he’d gathered earlier.

* * *

Julian was exhausted. He hadn’t moved from his desk in at least two days, having withdrawn to his study in the dungeons as soon as he’d left the gardens following his outing with Count Lucio. The book in his hands was one he’d borrowed from Asra, and the words on its pages were beginning to make even less sense than usual as fatigue made his vision blur. With how easy the dungeons made it to ignore the passage of time, he probably would have stayed in that exact same spot until he’d fainted had he not caught the soft murmur of voices outside of his study, rousing him from near sleep.

Except for the dead bodies of Plague victims, Julian and Valdemar were typically alone in the dungeons, but occasionally other physicians joined them if only to access their own private studies. Either way, he and his boss were the only ones among the Palace’s physicians who more than regularly dared to venture down here, yet he’d just now distinctly heard _two_ different voices. He folded down the corner of the book’s current page to mark his place—Asra would be mad, but for what was magic if not to fix the damage Julian did to his various tomes full of mystical claptrap, all of which were probably worthless anyway—and stood to investigate, tugging on his gloves in a rush as he left.

“Ah, Doctor,” said a hazy figure that resembled Countess Nadia, and Julian blinked and rubbed his eyes. Even when his vision cleared, Nadia was still standing there, her arms crossed and expression one of thinly veiled discomfort. “Just the man I’ve been looking for.”

Nadia looked terribly out of place, her bright clothing and glowing skin clashing with the dungeon’s oppressive, rancid air and the morbid decor the piles of corpses provided. The dungeons were not meant to hold someone so full of life, no matter how brief their visit, so it was little wonder why her presence did not agree with the dark atmosphere at all.

To make matters worse, behind her loomed Valdemar, who’d pulled down their surgical mask and was leering at Julian from over her shoulder. It seemed as if Julian had interrupted the Countess’s conversation with them, although Valdemar looked less annoyed and more intrigued.

“Doctor 069. Sadly still alive, I see,” Valdemar noted. “You have a visitor,” they added unnecessarily, red eyes flicking to Nadia, and Julian shivered at the perverse curiosity in their gaze.

“Countess,” he greeted with as best a smile as he could manage, ignoring Valdemar altogether. “Do you need me for something?”

“I do,” Nadia confirmed. She opened her mouth to reply but closed it at the last second, frowning as Valdemar merely continued to linger at her side rather than give them privacy. 

Although it was likely some violation of proper Palace behavior to invite the Countess to his private office, Julian decided to risk it anyway, unsettled by the way Valdemar was watching them. In obvious relief, Nadia accepted his offer and quickly stepped into his study, the doctor trailing behind her.

For good measure, he locked the door behind them and didn’t speak until he heard footsteps, signaling that his boss had given up any hopes of eavesdropping and had moved deeper into the dungeons.

At last, Julian turned to face the Countess with an awkward smile. “Sorry about that,” he said, sheepish. Valdemar had walked away but he still kept his voice quiet, just to be safe. “Valdemar is… well… you know.” Unsure how to describe them, he simply shrugged.

Nadia hummed in response. She held a finger to her lips as she took in the state of his study, looking at his unmade cot and messy desk in concern. “Is this truly where you spend so much of your time?” she eventually asked him, brows furrowed.

Disapproval was heavy in her gaze, and Julian shifted his weight where he stood. “Yes?” he answered weakly.

She frowned. “Making you conduct your research in these conditions… I can’t believe him. This is cruel, even for Lucio,” she muttered, and then she shook her head. “My apologies.”

“Oh, no, please,” he dismissed. “It’s fine.”

Sighing, Nadia pinned him to his spot with a look he couldn’t decipher. “There’s a reason you were all given studies in the dungeons, Doctor,” she told him sadly. 

He had no idea what she meant by that, and he was too tired to press for details. The grim twist of her lips showed him that he wouldn’t like what explanation she had, anyway.

He could come back to that comment later, once he was feeling more rested. In the meantime, he decided to pay it no mind and reply as if she hadn’t said what she just did.

“I mean, the company down here’s not so great.” He flashed her a joking smile. “But I must say, it _has_ gotten a lot better recently.” To lighten the mood further, he winked. “I owe you my thanks for that.”

She was kind enough to recognize his deflection for what it was and accept it without question, choosing not to force the topic.

“Oh, Doctor Devorak, you flatter me,” she said, teasing, returning his smile with one of her own. “Is your sister this charming?”

“My sister?” He raised his brows for a moment, surprised, and then relaxed, smile smoothing into something more genuine at the other’s mention of his sister, flattered that Nadia had remembered he had one. “Pasha… she’s always been in a league of her own—I’m an amateur compared to her.” He laughed. “She could probably make even _you_ swoon, Countess.”

Shockingly, Nadia actually _blushed_ , though the redness faded within seconds. It was with glee that Julian realized that even the almighty _Countess_ was susceptible to flushing at the prospect of being wooed by an attractive woman. 

“We shall see, won’t we?” She coughed delicately, and then promptly changed the subject. “I’m sorry for interrupting your work but, as you might have guessed, Count Lucio has requested we join him in his chambers tonight.”

“Of _course_ ,” he sighed. He suddenly understood why Nadia had deigned to come to the dungeons in the first place and bit back a groan at the implication. For Lucio to have forced _Nadia_ to fetch him rather than send a servant… no doubt the Count was feeling particularly impatient tonight, and it wouldn’t do to keep him waiting. “Well, let me get my things.” 

He’d kept himself awake the past few nights for Lucio’s sake, so what was one more? At least with Nadia and presumably Asra there, tonight had the possibility of being fun in a way countless hours of research did not. And Lucio’s invitations rarely came with the choice to refuse them.

Grabbing his sketchbook from where he’d stashed it in a drawer, Julian readied himself to go, hoping the dungeons’ stench of death hadn’t settled too deeply into his clothes. He’d switched into a new set just the other day, Lucio’s rude remark that his coat reeked of a morgue having stuck with him for longer than he’d have liked and eventually pushing him to change, but there was no telling if the dungeons had already affected his clothes until he left. 

 _Whatever_ , he thought, slamming his desk drawer shut. If he still smelled like a morgue, it was the Count’s own fault for assigning him a space in the dungeons, according to Nadia. Lucio could deal with it.

Sketchbook and pencil in hand, Julian nodded, and he and the Countess headed towards the cage that would bring them up to the Palace’s ground floor. He called to Valdemar as they made to leave, but his boss didn’t acknowledge it, too busy digging into some poor soul’s chest cavity to notice. Nadia went a little pale at the sight, and Julian hurried her even faster to the elevator, where they both squeezed themselves into the small cage to ascend together rather than go separately.

Some life returned to Nadia’s cheeks once they reached the next floor and she exited the cage, brushing off her front with surprisingly steady hands.

“I really _am_ sorry about that,” Julian found himself saying again as he followed her out. “You shouldn’t have had to come get me yourself. The dungeons are…” He uncurled himself from the uncomfortable stoop the confines of the cage had forced him into, rolling his shoulders. “Well. I guess now you’ve seen how they are for yourself.”

Nadia waited for him to finish stretching before she turned and began leading the way to Lucio’s wing.  “You misunderstand, Doctor,” she told him absently. “I volunteered to retrieve you.”

Julian frowned. “Did you?” he asked. “Why?”

“I wanted to ask you about how things went with Lucio the other day, without him there to influence your answer,” she said. With a fond glance at him, she added lightly, “That, and Asra has been complaining recently that you’d stolen one of his books. I wondered if you actually had.”

“ _Stolen_?” He knew Nadia’s intention was to distract him from the first part of her explanation, but damn if it didn’t work. “I didn’t _steal_ anything! I just… borrowed it.” He winced at the knowing look Nadia shot him. “Maybe without asking.”

It was _Asra’s_ fault for having left the book open on a table in the library, knowing full well Julian’s propensity for taking books from the library and absconding to his study with them. If Asra _hadn’t_ wanted him to take it, he should’ve left a note. And it wasn’t as if Julian had done it on purpose; he hadn’t even realized it was Asra’s book until he’d hastily flipped through its pages and had seen the—admittedly romantic—inscription on the inside cover that read, _to Asra with love, from your soulmate_ , or something equally as corny. By then, Julian had become too hyperfocused on the book to consider returning it right away.

He’d originally planned to give it back within the week, but now the only thing keeping him from holding onto it for longer out of spite was the fact that it had been a gift from the magician’s partner, and he was sure Asra was honestly upset at its loss instead of just annoyed.

“As I suspected,” Nadia laughed. With Julian sufficiently preoccupied, she circled back around to her first question. “About your outing with Lucio, then. How was it?”

Julian pursed his lips. He didn’t want to lie, but he did _not_ want to tell the truth: being alone with Lucio had made him ill at ease, and he didn’t feel up to examining the reason why. So far, burying himself in his work and pretending it hadn’t happened had proven to be the best strategy.

He decided to take Lucio’s not-quite-advice. “I had fun,” he said, and he didn’t elaborate.

Nadia raised a brow at him. “You… had _fun_ ,” she repeated, suspicious.

“Oodles of fun,” he confirmed. 

“How strange,” she drawled after a moment. “That’s _exactly_ what Lucio told me.”

Julian exhaled shortly in disbelief. Lucio had _specifically told him_ to say he had fun, and then the man hadn’t been able to come up with another word to use himself? What an idiot.

The doctor scrambled for a response. “W-Well,” he said, “that just, uh, that goes to show we really did have fun!” He held up his sketchbook. “It was _so_ fun I even offered to draw him as thanks! See?”

Nadia looked at him sidelong. “Right,” she finally said. “I suppose that explains why Lucio spent the entirety of today in the baths and in front of his mirror.”

“Oh.” Had Lucio truly taken hours to prepare for _Julian_ to sketch him? “Did he?”

“You’ll be able to see for yourself, Doctor,” Nadia answered, long-suffering.

Julian fell quiet after that, and they walked the short rest of the path to Lucio’s wing in companionable silence, broken only by occasional greetings from the odd servant here and there.

Lucio’s wing was as cold and unwelcoming as it always was, but Nadia strode through the halls with purpose until she reached the doors to his rooms. She pushed them open with little fanfare, knocking but once as a perfunctory way of announcing her arrival, and Julian spotted Asra and Lucio each sitting cross-legged across from one another in the latter’s plush bed, a spread of tarot cards laid out on the covers between them. Asra must have just finished a reading; he was in the process of gathering the cards and shuffling them into his stack, and Julian thought he could see the face of the card for Death before Asra slid it back among the others.

“Welcome back, Nadi,” the magician said pleasantly, looking up before Lucio did, and then he narrowed his eyes at Julian, his frown deep. “Ilya, where’s my book?”

“Shut it, Asra,” Lucio told him without hesitation. “No one cares about your stupid book.” He turned to the doctor with a smirk, missing the deadly glare Asra aimed at the side of his head. “The only thing Jules’s got with him is his sketchbook. Right, Jules?”

Against his will, Julian laughed. It’d been unbelievably rude of Lucio to tell the magician off like that, but it’d been great to witness nonetheless.

“Sorry, Asra,” Julian said, trying to stifle another snicker at his friend’s expense. He must not have succeeded, because Lucio’s grin widened at the amusement in his voice. The Count’s eyes brightened even further when he showed him his sketchbook. “I’m afraid he’s right.”

Asra’s expression darkened to absolutely murderous. “Ilya…” he said threateningly.

Lucio waved him off. “Ah-ah-ah! We’re talking about _me_ here.”

“Lucio, please,” Nadia said, strained.

As usual, he completely disregarded her obvious distaste for his behavior. “Noddy!” he greeted, gesturing for her to join him and Asra on the bed. Albeit reluctantly, she did, sitting down next to the magician. “Let Asra give you a reading!”

It was Asra’s turn to smirk, now. “Yes, Nadia,” he agreed. “Shall I give you a love reading, like the one Lucio requested of me?”

“What?! I-I did _not_!” Lucio whipped around to face him, mortified, and snarled, “Pipe down before I tear your throat out.”

Asra hummed serenely. “But then how will I read the Countess’s fortune?”

Julian made the decision to intervene, not wanting their bickering to come to blows. Asra was braver than most when it came to pushing Lucio’s buttons—he was arguably the best magician in Vesuvia after his soulmate, and he _knew_ it. He’d become too secure in his belief that Lucio wouldn’t follow through on any of his threats lest Vesuvia lose a skilled magician, but Julian didn’t want to test his theory, at least not tonight.

“Ah, Count Lucio?” he interrupted gently. Lucio whirled on him, red faced and furious, but he relaxed once Julian held up his sketchbook again. Nadia’s gaze flicked to him, impressed as ever at how quickly he’d gotten her husband to calm down. “If I may?”

“Oh, right.” Lucio cleared his throat and pointed to a fine, regal chair he’d situated in front of the bed. With the bed curtains open, Julian would have a good enough view of his front, even if his figure would be slightly blocked by Nadia’s and Asra’s backs. It didn’t really matter, so long as Julian could see his face. “You can sit there. Get to it, Doctor. And I want to look at what you’ve done before you leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once Julian had sat and opened his sketchbook to a new page, Asra and Nadia began discussing the terms of her reading, while Lucio remained across from them at the head of his bed, looking on intently. With Lucio silent, tuning out the low thrum of the others’ voices and focusing solely on drawing was a simple enough matter—Asra tended to be soft spoken and Nadia flat, both of them far from commanding attention the way Lucio and his harsh, snappish delivery did, and Julian could effortlessly brush their voices aside.

The more he scrutinized Lucio, tracking the sharp angles of his jaw and nose and attempting to replicate them on paper, the more he realized Nadia had been telling him the truth earlier: Lucio looked _good_ , for lack of a better word—even better than he had that day in the gardens. A hot bath had encouraged a healthy flush to rise to his skin, a striking difference from the typical feverish redness the Plague gave him, and the very ends of his hair were still wet and curling against the nape of his neck. Again, he’d kept his face bare, having shaved and abstaining from applying makeup, and the natural refinement of his features stood out all the more for it.

Looking the way he did, sprawled out comfortably and quietly and surrounded by those he deemed his friends, he seemed as if he were not a man dying of the Plague, but instead was one who merely happened to have red eyes.

He was much more handsome like this, Julian thought. He’d even be tempted to call him beautiful, were he positive Lucio wouldn’t slaughter him for it. Even if he kept that thought within the privacy of his own mind, he was still worried Lucio would somehow be able to find out he’d been described with such a pretty, _flowery_ word, so Julian refrained.

By the time Asra had almost finished Nadia’s reading, Lucio had grown restless, and he reached out and snatched one of the cards Nadia had flipped over, bringing it close to inspect it for himself while Asra fumed at the interruption. Julian hid another smirk behind his sketchbook, ducking his head to work on some finer details of his sketch.

“Why didn’t I get this one?” Lucio demanded. The doctor glanced up—in Lucio’s hand was the Star, and the Count also proceeded to pick up the High Priestess. “Nadia got an owl lady and some cute cat and I got _Death_? I want a do over.”

Asra took a deep, calming breath before replying. “Readings are unique for each person,” he said tightly, as if he’d already explained this a hundred times. Knowing Lucio, he probably had. “You each chose what you did for a reason. You’ll likely just get something along the exact same lines as before.”

“That’s not fair,” Lucio complained. “You gave us both a love reading, right? Read my cards again, but this time I want…” He snagged the rest of the deck from where it rested at Asra’s side and shuffled through the cards until he found one card in particular. “This one. I want this one.”

“The King of Wands, hm?” To both Julian and Nadia’s shock, Asra seemed to be considering it, taking the card from Lucio’s grip and turning it so it was no longer upright. He looked it over for a moment and then asked, “Why?”

Lucio frowned. “It’s a giant snake in front of a fire,” he said, deadpan, like he thought Asra was unforgivably stupid for not knowing. “Why wouldn’t I want it?”

“Reversed, the King of Wands can spell danger for you and those around you,” Asra told him. “Tread cautiously with your aggression. In your bold pursuit of your plans, you may end up destroying everything in your path.”

Lucio rolled his eyes. “I don’t see how that’s a bad thing,” he said. Of course he didn’t. “Redo my reading and make sure I pick that. Don’t screw it up with Death or the Hanged Man or whatever else again.”

Julian stilled. _The Hanged Man?_ Hadn’t Asra once told him that the Hanged Man appeared rarely for nearly everyone except him? He stared at the back of Asra’s head in confusion, but the magician deliberately shrugged off the weight of Julian’s gaze and refused to turn around, keeping his focus on Lucio.

“We can try again tomorrow night,” Asra compromised. He rescued his remaining cards from Lucio’s grasp and organized them into a clean stack, and then he slid them into his pocket. “Anyway, it’s getting late. I should head home.”

“You just got here!” Lucio protested, either not realizing that Asra was using the hour as an excuse to escape his company, or simply not caring. Both were equally likely. “You can’t leave yet!”

“Lucio, it’s almost midnight,” Nadia told him.

“So?”

“My partner is expecting me to return home tonight,” Asra said, “as is Faust.”

At the mention of Asra’s soulmate, the Count huffed, but he didn’t argue. “ _Fine_ ,” he agreed, although his tone was still cross. It was almost… _sweet_ , that all it had taken for him to let Asra go was a reminder that the magician had someone waiting for him at home. “Go on, then!” Lucio made a shooing motion with his hands. “Get out of my sight.”

“Take a carriage,” Nadia added. When Asra opened his mouth to respond, she held up a hand to stop him; Julian knew this was an exchange they’d had many times before. “Asra, if I find out you walked home again, I won’t be pleased. Take a carriage—I insist.”

“All right,” Asra relented with a smile. “Thank you, Nadi.”

The magician said his farewells and made to leave, reminding Julian once more that he wanted his book back and he wanted it back _now_ , and, as he exited Lucio’s chambers, he firmly shut the doors on Lucio yelling after him, “Don’t come back until you’ve decided to give me a better reading!”

With Asra gone, Julian took that as his own cue to leave and return to the dungeons. He stood and went to close his sketchbook but froze when Lucio shot him a glare.

“And just where do you think _you’re_ going, Jules?” the Count asked, brow raised. He jerked his chin at Julian’s chair. “I didn’t say _you_ could leave, did I? Sit down and finish your sketch.”

The doctor glanced at Nadia. “But…”

“The Countess and I have business to discuss, so she’s staying, too,” Lucio said. “We’re going to talk, and you’re going to sit there and draw me until I say so. Got it?”

However charming Julian had found him for his unexpected kindness to Asra on behalf of Asra’s soulmate, he’d completely ruined it just now.

“Right,” Julian muttered. “Sorry.”

Nadia sent him an apologetic look, but he shook his head. It wasn’t her fault Lucio acted the way he did, constantly blowing hot and cold—and Julian could really only blame himself for always letting Lucio affect him so severely. It didn’t help that he hadn’t slept in days, either.

As Lucio had ordered, he went back to his sketch, but now, with Lucio speaking up every now and then, dragging Julian’s attention away from his looks and to his voice, it had become harder to concentrate. Whatever topic Vesuvia’s leaders were debating currently was excruciatingly boring, but Lucio poured as much of his intensity into his discussion with Nadia as he did everything else, and Julian found himself lost in listening to him speak.

Inattentive as he was, his sketching had begun to slow; every time he blinked, it felt as if five whole minutes had passed without him noticing, and there were constantly new, jagged lines from his pencil appearing in his sketch, ones that cut through his drawing, that he could never recall putting there and ended up having to erase.

“Jules?” At the sound of his name, Julian tried to lift his head, but his neck simply wouldn’t cooperate. _Oh, no_ , he realized in horror. He was falling asleep. Lucio had come to stand in front of him and was even snapping his fingers to try to rouse him, but it wasn’t working. “Hey, Jules!”

“ _Lucio_ ,” Nadia hissed. “Leave him alone.”

“Noddy, he’s _asleep_ ,” Lucio retorted. “He _fell asleep_ while drawing me. _Me_!”

She ignored him. “Poor man… He’s obviously exhausted,” she said in sympathy. Lucio scoffed. “Will you not just let him sleep here tonight?”

“You’re not serious, are you? You want me to let him sleep in _this_ chair? _Here_? In _my room_?”

“If you’re so opposed to the idea, then I suppose you could carry him over to the bed and let him sleep there.”

“You mean _my_ bed?!”

“I doubt it’d kill you to share.”

“Oh, come on, Noddy. He smells like death!”

“He’s been holed up in the dungeons for the past however many days. Doing Plague research. _For you_.” The Countess sighed. “Besides, the servants change your bedding everyday. It’d be kind of you to share for just this one night.”

“That’s ridiculous—I’m not doing that. I refuse.”

“Then sleeping in the chair for him it is.” She clicked her tongue in disappointment. “At least give him a blanket.”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so. He is _not_ sleeping here.”

There was a pause.

“If this is because—” Nadia began lowly.

Lucio’s hackles rose instantly. “It’s _not_!” he shouted. “ _No_ , Noddy. I-It is _not_ that!”

“Of course it isn’t.” Dead to the world as he was, Julian could still catch the sarcasm in Nadia’s voice loud and clear.

“Fine. _Fine_!” Lucio started tugging viciously on his arm in an attempt to pull him up from the chair. “Don’t look at me like that—I’ll put him in the damn bed.”

The Countess’s soft murmur of thanks was the last thing he heard.

* * *

 Something heavy was lying across his front, raising the temperature to intolerably hot as well as making it difficult for him to breathe, and there was a loud snuffling in his ear, the sound accompanied by a low snoring coming somewhere from farther away. Uncomfortable, Julian went to sigh but instead got a mouthful of hair and choked. Spitting out the strands, his eyes flew open and he scrambled to push himself up, now fully awake.

Mercedes was glaring balefully at him from where she’d curled up directly on his chest, irritated that her human pillow had decided to move and had so thoughtlessly jostled her. At least that solved the mystery of the sound in his ear and why it had become nearly impossible to breathe: there was a dog on top of him. Though she seemed to be mostly fluff and was smaller than Melchior, Mercedes was still relatively heavy, and her sleep-heavy whuffing was hardly quiet. 

At the opposite end of the bed, down at his feet, lay Melchior, whose sleep Julian must have also disturbed with his shifting; even though the other dog hadn’t lifted his head, one of his ears was perked upright in attention.

Both hounds were missing their golden collars, and it was the first time Julian had seen their necks bare. Without the spiky collars, Mercedes and Melchior appeared almost peaceful and kind, the same as Lucio did on the days he chose not to wear whatever he used to turn his mechanical hand into a claw. The three of them really were much too alike, sometimes.

Setting a hand in Mercedes’s fur—what he must have inhaled earlier—and scratching the top of her head in apology, Julian looked around.

He was… in Count Lucio’s room.

In Count Lucio’s _bed_.

“Oh, no,” he muttered, heart starting to race. This was _not_ good. Unhelpfully, Mercedes blinked at him, while Melchior put his ear back down and ignored Julian altogether in favor of going back to sleep. “No, no, no, no, _no_.”

How had he ended up in Lucio’s bed? Had he fallen asleep while drawing last night? He _must_ have—if he hadn’t, he’d have returned to his cot in the dungeons. On the nightstand next to him was his sketchbook, and he hurriedly flipped through the pages to find his picture of Lucio, dismayed to see it only three-fourths of the way finished.

No wonder he hadn’t left Lucio’s chambers. Asra had been allowed to go home once he’d given Lucio and Nadia their tarot readings, even if Lucio hadn’t necessarily enjoyed his results, but Julian had been forced to stay until he’d completed his task to Lucio’s liking. 

Apparently, instead of managing to sketch something Lucio would’ve deemed acceptable and perhaps even enjoyed, Julian had passed out in the man’s chair.

“Great,” he sighed to himself, clutching Mercedes’s fur for comfort. “Just great.”

Lucio had asked for a sketch—a quick, effortless sketch—and Julian had _still_ found a way to fail him. He hadn’t been able to save the man’s arm, he was no closer to curing the man’s illness than anyone else, and now? Now, he hadn’t even been able to meet the Count’s demand for a few lines of pencil on paper. 

 _Of course_ , he thought, grimacing. It was rare for him to do much of anything right, and this had proven to be no exception.

To add insult to injury, Lucio had yet again treated him mercifully, if not kindly. On how many occasions had Julian thought Lucio would tear his throat out for whatever mess he’d made of something, only for Lucio to let him live another day? It was becoming something of an alarming pattern: Lucio kept giving him chance after chance, granting him leniency for things that he suspected would have gotten many others killed, and Julian kept disappointing him.

This time, Lucio had even gone so far as _to_ _put him to bed_. Julian’s memories of last night were murky at best, becoming fuzzy not long after Asra had returned home, but they started to arrange themselves into coherence the longer he stared at his unfinished sketch, the last of his drowsiness steadily disappearing, displaced by his growing anxiety. His shoulder ached enough for him to recall Lucio violently yanking his arm in order to get him to stand and then, once he had, pushing him into bed; if he remembered correctly, he’d been moved to the bed at Nadia’s request, but Lucio had eventually agreed all the same, having needed only about a minute of convincing.

Julian knew he was the person who deserved Lucio’s uncharacteristic compassion the least, yet there he was, tucked away in the Count’s bed, underneath his luxurious duvet and nestled against his dogs. Lucio had even done him the courtesy of removing his coat from around his shoulders and tugging off his boots before tossing the sheets over him—though, with Mercedes sprawled across his front and Melchior warming his feet, Julian had still become overheated, unused to such lavish covers or to sharing a bed with anyone except for the occasional one night stand. He appreciated the effort, nonetheless.

As grudging as it might have been, what Lucio had done for him still resembled something almost like _tenderness_ , especially coming from someone so typically heartless; Julian didn’t know what to think, caught between a deep sense of gratitude and the worry that this just part of a longer game. Was Lucio’s intention merely to let him get _invested_ before killing him? He doubted that Lucio had suddenly developed the patience necessary for any such plot, but, before today, he hadn’t believed Lucio capable of allowing someone else to sleep in his bed, either.

The Count of Vesuvia was far from the best humanity had to offer—immature and selfish, volatile, more _great_ than strictly _good_ —but Julian had never thought of him as explicitly _evil_. If his idea _were_ true, that Lucio had shown him reluctant kindness for no reason other than to hurt him that much more in the end… the more Julian turned it over in mind, the more upset he became. 

Lucio was cruel and dangerously foolish to boot, but certainly he was better than _that_? He was purposely rude, couldn’t control his temper, and delighted in violence, but, for some reason, Julian was desperate to think him above the genuine, cold-hearted maliciousness it’d take to treat another person like that. That’d be unforgivable.

Sensing the sharp dip in Julian’s mood, Mercedes whined and licked his face, and, for a brief moment, he missed Brundle so fiercely it made his chest ache.

“Sorry, girl,” he said softly, trying to dredge up a smile for her. 

For Lucio to have earned not only her loyalty but also the loyalty of his every other pet, there had to be _something_ redeemable about him, albeit buried deep. Maybe Lucio would even be able to earn _Brundle’s_ friendship, if given the chance. Julian trusted his dog’s judgment more than he did his own.

Mercedes nipped his hand, frustrated that the doctor had slowed in petting her as his thoughts had started wandering again.

“Brat. Not everything is about you, you know,” he teased, scratching behind her ear. She barked playfully in response, matching his laugh, and Melchior turned to growl at them for making so much noise. Julian gently nudged the other dog with his foot in apology. “Hey, sorry, sorry. Go back to sleep, you sourpuss.”

Melchior let loose another annoyed snarl before resettling his body into a tight ball, paws over his eyes and ears pressed flat to his head, the action overly dramatic but unsurprising considering from whom he’d learned how to behave. Snug in bed and lacking his collar, his petulance came across less as menacing and more as adorable. If only the servants could see the Count’s guard dogs like this, the two of them warm from sleep and huddled up in their owner’s covers—neither Mercedes nor Melchior would be able to scare anyone again.

Unbeknownst to Julian, as he’d been talking to Mercedes and Melchior the light snoring that’d been echoing throughout the room—a sound he stupidly hadn’t realized as belonging to neither of the dogs—had ceased, and he just barely refrained from shrieking and leaping off the bed when the mound of blankets next to him began to move. The weight of Mercedes on his front had him pinned to his spot; unwilling to dislodge her, he was invariably stuck, and his heart pounding in fear and suspense as out from under the covers popped an unfortunately familiar head of blond hair.

In horror, it dawned on Julian that he’d slept next to Lucio.

_He’d slept next to Lucio._

Last night, Lucio must have shoved him into bed and then climbed into bed himself on the other side, burrowing so far beneath the covers that Julian had thought the odd shape of the mattress next to him a stack pillows or something as equally uninteresting. 

Instead, the lump in bed had been _Lucio_ , and Julian had slept the whole night next to him none the wiser.

“Would you _stop_ ,” came Lucio’s exasperated grumble, voice still tinged with fatigue. He pushed himself fully out of the covers and up the bed, hands and elbows shaking, before flopping gracelessly onto his pillows on his back and fixing Julian with a dark glower. “You’re pissing off the dogs.”

“Um…” Julian couldn’t hold the other’s gaze and quickly looked away to Mercedes, who was wagging her tail in delight now that her owner was awake. Even Melchior seemed to have brightened, sitting up and stretching and padding happily across the covers to where Lucio was beckoning him. Lost for words, the doctor stammered, “Uh, w… what?”

“You’re thinking so hard I can practically hear you, idiot,” Lucio informed him, scowling, but his eyes softened when Melchior settled under his outstretched arm and prodded at him with his snout. “It’s driving me and the dogs insane.”

Julian wondered what he could _possibly_ say to that. “Sorry,” he murmured—it was all he had.

Mercedes, jealous that Melchior was getting all of Lucio’s attention, growled and jumped off of Julian, using where she lay on Julian’s stomach as a springboard and making him groan and curl up in pain, his eyes watering.

Lucio didn’t bother to hold back his snicker. “Good girl,” he told Mercedes as she joined him. He pressed a kiss to her head, grinning, and then turned back to his bedmate and let his smile fall. “Whatever. Either be quiet and go back to sleep or get the hell out.”

 _Go… back to sleep?_ Blinking, Julian repeated hesitantly, “I… what?” 

Of all the strategies he’d come up with that Lucio would take in order to get him to leave, it hadn’t _once_ crossed his mind that Lucio would ignore them altogether and offer for him to _stay_. To call their current situation unnerving would be an understatement, he thought frantically: Lucio was acting almost _friendly_ —well, friendly for him, at least—and it seemed as if finding Julian in his bed didn’t bother him at all.

“Are you always this dumb in the mornings?” Lucio snapped. “Go to _sleep_ , Jules, damn it.” He waved a hand idly towards the door. “Unless you want to do me a favor and see yourself out?” Despite his words, his tone lacked its usual venom and, though he wasn’t smiling, his expression wasn’t hostile.

It was clear Lucio wouldn’t argue if Julian did actually make the decision to stay, but, for Julian, the most worrisome of all was just how difficult he was finding it to turn Lucio down. Reclining against the pillows, robe askew and hair tousled and lines on his cheek from where he must’ve had his face pressed against creases in the sheets, Lucio looked soft and sleep rumpled, and the bed seemed all the more warm and inviting for it. 

Terrifyingly enough, the option to stay was… tempting.

At that thought, Julian panicked. Uncomfortable with just how comfortable having someone—no, not having _someone_ , having _Lucio_ —lying next to him in bed was, he decided to do what he did best.

He ran.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're rly calling this ship jucio huh? i mean.....ok, but........ anyway big big BIG thank you to everyone who's reading this! :-) i'm not a confident writer (at all LMAO oops) and i was rly hesitant to post my hot garbage but that even _one_ person out there is enjoying this is what makes it all worth it tbh so really, tysm. maybe i'll even post some of the other trash i have festering in various word docs on my computer?
> 
> this chapter is extremely self-indulgent so uh idk watch out? oh and also !!!! there are some mentions/descriptions of physical violence (i mean, it's _lucio_ ) so if that kind of thing is unsettling to you pls be careful! it's not graphic (nor will it get graphic, or at least i don't think it will) so it's not in the tags but i'm always willing to update the notes at the beginning of each chapter if you see something you think i should warn for so pls do not hesitate to ask!

Today was going to be a good day—of that, Asra was certain. 

In the morning, he’d woken in soulmate’s arms, opening his eyes to sunlight streaming through the curtains and illuminating the gorgeous features of the person who held his heart, reminding him just how very lucky he was to have found such happiness. He’d felt a momentary flash of guilt at the thought—remembering how many lives and loves the Plague had destroyed, abashed that he’d dare to celebrate his own fortune so brazenly in the face of such tragedy—but then his partner had murmured his name while sleeping and, when he’d turned to muffle his laughter, he’d spotted Faust curled up on a pillow nearby. The time for gloomy rumination could wait.

After that, they’d moved to the table to eat a late breakfast and there they’d discussed their plans for the day, Asra ecstatic to share that he wasn’t expected back at the Palace until sundown. It was a rarity for Count Lucio not to demand his presence for the entire day and Asra intended to make the most of his free time outside of Lucio’s destructive reach, glad to have a break catering to the man’s every whim and his childish need for constant attention.  

As Asra had hoped, his soulmate had been elated to learn of his plans, and together both magicians had opened the shop for the day, grateful for the opportunity to work alongside one another again. Asra had nearly forgotten what it was like to be so in tune with someone else while working, having grown too used to Julian accidentally elbowing him while reaching for a book or Nadia asking him to repeat himself after her mind had wandered, but he and his partner operated like a well-oiled machine.  

It was as if he’d left to work at the Palace only yesterday, or perhaps that he’d never even made such an awful mistake at all. Though it would mean he’d failed at his task to cure the Plague, Asra would easily trade Lucio’s death in exchange for the chance to return to the shop full-time, where his partner showered him with praise and words of affection and kissed him every time they brushed against each other.

Today was going to be a good day, and so far it had been—so, of course, it made sense that Julian Devorak would ruin everything before afternoon. 

Asra figured it was his own fault for tempting fate so blatantly. 

Julian had chosen the perfect time to come stumbling into the shop, too. His partner had only _just_ snuffed the lantern and stepped out to buy a few loaves of pumpkin bread for lunch when Asra heard the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock of the door to the back room and Julian appeared. 

“Ilya,” Asra greeted mildly, returning to the ledger in his hands. Neither he nor his soulmate had much skill with balancing the books, but it still needed to be done and there was no better time to do it than when his soulmate wasn’t around to distract him with flirtatious looks and coy smiles. “It’s good to see you, but I’m afraid we’re closed.”

“I know, I saw the lantern,” Julian said, not getting the hint. “I used my key.”

At least he hadn’t broken in, as had been his wont _before_ Asra had given him a key. Still…

“That key is for _emergencies only_ , Ilya,” Asra explained, patience thinning. 

The only thing that kept him from kicking Julian out of the shop and back onto the street was how disappointed his soulmate would be to hear he’d done that. That, and Julian looked oddly frazzled: Asra couldn't recall the last time he’d seen the doctor’s appearance come anywhere remotely close to _put together_ , if he ever had, but it was obvious Julian was even more stressed than usual at the moment. His hair stood up every which way like he’d been running his hands through it for hours, he was missing his coat, and, instead of his boots, he was wearing a pair of too small sandals. 

It wasn’t the best state of his Asra had ever been forced to witness, no, but it was nowhere near the _worst_ , either. After all, nothing compared to when he’d found Julian blacked out beneath one of the tables in the Rowdy Raven and suspiciously devoid of most of his clothing—Asra been trying to scrub all memories of that time from his mind since it’d happened, but he hadn’t been completely successful.

“This _is_ an emergency!” Julian said, voice strangled, and he slammed his hands down on the counter on either side of the ledger. He was being much more dramatic than Asra thought was warranted at quarter before noon. Disapprovingly, Asra looked up at the other with a severe frown. “Uh… s-sorry.” The doctor flushed, apologetic, and backed away a step with his hands raised before dropping them.

Mollified, Asra closed the ledger and slid it to the side. Julian probably wouldn’t leave until someone listened to him—or at least made a good show of listening to him—and Asra wanted the man gone before his soulmate came back from the bakery. 

The two of them meeting would be tortuous; undoubtedly, his soulmate would take one look at Julian and then invite him upstairs for some tea and give him a platform to share his every his single woe. His soulmate had a particular fondness for strays, which Asra, a former stray himself, knew from experience. Julian was nothing if not lost and pathetic even on his best days, and Asra knew his soulmate would take the doctor in without hesitation.

“It’s fine.” The magician propped an elbow on the counter and rested his chin in his hand, settling in for a discussion he hoped would be brief. “You were saying?”

“Ah, right.” Thusly reminded, Julian shook his head and started to pace the length of the shop, dragging his hands through his unruly mop of hair as he stalked back and forth. “I… I just…” He winced. “It’s not really… it’s not something that I…”

 _Out with it_ , Asra thought, narrowing his eyes. In the back of his head, he could hear his soulmate tutting in disappointment at his attitude, and he sighed and rearranged his expression into one of concern. 

“Is everything all right, Ilya?” he asked. “You said it was an emergency.”

“Well, I, um…” Embarrassed, Julian coughed and moved towards the counter again, ducking his head to avoid Asra’s eyes. “I can’t really… I don’t…”

Stalling, he drummed his fingertips along the glass top while Asra waited in silence by watching him fidget. Finally, he let out a deep breath and mumbled something inaudible, brows drawing together in confusion as his cheeks flared as red as his hair.

“Ilya?” Asra pressed after a moment, when it became clear Julian wouldn’t repeat himself unless prompted. “What was that?”

“I, um… I said…” Julian flicked a glance at him once before hastily looking away again. “I, uh.” He cleared his throat. “I slept with Lucio.”

There was no way Asra had heard him correctly.

“You… what?” he asked.

“I slept with Lucio.”

No, apparently he’d heard Julian just fine.

“… You _what_.”

“Please stop saying that,” Julian begged uncomfortably, shuffling his feet. “I don’t want to say it out loud again.”

Asra didn’t blame him—in the same vein, the magician didn’t want to _hear_ it out loud again. In fact, he wished he’d never heard it in the first place.

He should’ve just told Julian to leave.

“I can’t believe you…” _Shocked_ didn’t begin to cover how Asra was feeling. _Weary_ , too, was appropriate, he thought, but _disgusted_ was also accurate. He knew Lucio was Julian’s soulmate, but Lucio was the worst, most unappealing person in Vesuvia, if not the entire universe, and, soulmates or not, Asra had believed Julian to possess _some_ standards. At least he and Nadia no longer had to keep the fact that Lucio was Montag to themselves. “So… you know, then.”

“Huh?” That seemed to pierce through Julian’s haze of self-flagellation. Blinking, the doctor looked at him once again. “No. Know what?”

Asra frowned. How had Julian not seen his name on Lucio’s wrist? Had the two of them had sex in total darkness with their clothes on? That didn’t sound at all like Lucio and his vanity. The Plague had damaged his looks, but had it done so to the point that Lucio preferred his bed partners to be unable to see him clearly? Of that, the magician was doubtful. 

Julian was likely just being obtuse. 

“You must know,” Asra insisted. “Even if he didn’t show you, surely you saw for yourself? Or he saw yours?”

“Asra, what are you talking about?” 

“But…” He narrowed his eyes. _Ugh._ “Ilya, stop that. You _know_. If you truly had sex with him—”

“W-Wait, _what_?!” Julian startled, interrupting his friend with an appalled, inadvertent yelp, his words turning into nothing more than an incoherent squeak at the end. “If I—I, I’m sorry. There’s—oh, _wow_. That’s not what I… No, Asra! I didn’t—no. _Sex_? With _Lucio_? No, I wouldn’t—I would never—why would I—I just… _No_! I-I didn’t… How could you…”

“Ilya… that’s what you just told me,” Asra said carefully. “You said you slept together. What else would I have taken it to mean?” 

“Oh.” Julian blushed for what had to be the thousandth time within the past ten minutes and bit his lip. “I… guess that’s my own fault, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. We just, um, slept in the same bed together. Nothing, you know, uh, _happened_. Um. Sorry.”

 _Get out_ , was on the tip of Asra’s tongue, but he swallowed it back just in time. Had speaking to Julian always been so agonizingly frustrating? It couldn’t have been—Asra had come to consider the man a friend, of a sort. Julian was bright, if eccentric. He was one of the few who’d been to places of which Asra had never even heard, had lived more life in his years than most, and had the stories and wits and occasional charm to show for it. Yet he was _also_ one of the few who could decimate Asra’s—a _magician’s_ —tolerance for nonsense in a single breath. 

“Right,” Asra said once he’d calmed himself. “If not that, then what _did_ happen?”

“No, no, wait, you first,” Julian protested. “What did _you_ mean? What was I supposed to have known?”

“Nothing,” he answered plainly. _If you truly can’t figure it out for yourself…_ “I misspoke.”

“What?” The other’s face fell. “Asra, we’re friends, aren’t we? I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lie to me. You definitely meant something by it.”

“And I’d appreciate it if you returned my book,” Asra deflected, trying to keep his tone from becoming too snappish. His goal was to deter Julian from pursuing the subject, not to hurt Julian’s feelings, although he _did_ want his book back. “I already told you, Ilya. It was an accident.” He continued before the other could argue. “So you shared a bed with Lucio?”

“I…” Julian gave him a long, searching look, one away from which Asra refused to flinch. Though visibly unsatisfied with Asra’s lack of an answer, the doctor eventually nodded. “Yes, I did.” He glanced back down at his hands, frowning as he twitched his fingers restlessly. “It was… weird—I, I don’t know. I can’t think of any other way to describe it.”

“Did you stay the night in his chambers?”

He nodded again. “Last night, after you left, I tried to leave, too, but Lucio made me stay and then I…” He sighed. “I fell asleep.”

Asra furrowed his brows. “In Lucio’s bed?”

“No, not at first,” Julian explained. “I originally fell asleep in the chair, but then Nadia convinced him to move me.”

Asra wasn’t surprised to hear it’d been the Countess’s suggestion. For a woman who hated to drop her facade of cool detachment in front of others, she had such a wonderfully large heart, and he admired her greatly. “That was very kind of her,” he said. 

“I-I mean, _yes_ , it was, but…” Julian shrugged. After a pause, he murmured, “I didn’t think Lucio would actually _listen_ to her.”

 _Ah_ , Asra realized: Julian probably wanted to know if Lucio’s actions had merely been those of a Count trying to keep the peace with his wife or if Lucio thought of him as _special_ , but he wanted to know without having to ask the Count himself.

“I woke up to his dogs suffocating me,” the doctor went on, a fond smile working its way into his face before it quickly disappeared. “And, well, _Lucio_ was there, too, but he was—nice? Okay, maybe not _nice_ , but… not overtly rude, at any rate, which, you know—is nice for him.” Frown deepening, he added, “He even offered for me to stay.”

“But you didn’t,” Asra finished for him. In response, Julian shook his head and gestured loosely towards the shop around him, indicating that he’d bolted as soon as Lucio had finished telling him to go back to sleep. Gently, Asra asked, “Why not?”

“What do you mean?” Julian turned his gaze on him, head tilted in confusion. “Why would I have?”

Deciding to give him a slight push, Asra said, “You and I have shared a bed before.”

Unimpressed, Julian huffed and looked away again. “That’s not the same and you know it,” he muttered.

He was right—it wasn’t _at all_ the same, considering Asra wasn’t a bloodthirsty despot with no regard for human life—but the magician wasn’t willing to let it go. “Isn’t it?” he asked, falsely contemplative. 

If Julian was so concerned over whether or not Lucio was treating him differently than how he did others, then Julian first would have to see that he _himself_ was guilty of the same thing, or so Asra supposed. By his own accounts, Julian had experience in warming the beds of friends and foes alike, so what was it about _Lucio_ in particular that had Julian so upset?

Asra knew full well what it was, but he’d sworn to Nadia that he’d never dare divulge it, even if it meant having to endure Julian’s moping when he’d rather be doing anything else.

Sighing miserably, Julian slumped forward and thumped his head down on the glass countertop, grabbing a handful of his own hair in distress. 

“No,” he mumbled. “It’s not. It’s really, _really_ not.”

Asra set a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Ilya,” he said, for lack of anything better. “What will you do?”

Julian groaned. “What _can_ I do, besides pretend it never happened? It’s not as if I can just _ask_ him about it.” In a mocking, reedy voice, he added, “‘Count Lucio, thank you for letting me sleep with you in what is essentially your deathbed. May I ask you why you invited me to stay? No? My apologies. Oh, and by the way, while I have you here, thank you for not killing me. Just out of curiosity, is there any particular reason you haven’t yet?’” Once he finished his exaggeration of himself, he scoffed. “I could never.”

Asra sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward for in a plea for strength before he squeezed Julian’s shoulder again and removed his hand. “Ilya, I can’t tell you what to do,” he said. “If you think ignoring it is best, then…”

Truthfully, Asra didn’t have the slightest clue how to help someone who didn’t even know what their problem was, and his vow to Nadia had his hands tied. All he could do was give Julian was a pat on the back… and then ask Julian to leave so his lunch with his soulmate wasn’t interrupted. Had Julian decided to barge into the shop at any other time on any other day, Asra would’ve been far more amenable to listening to him whine and maybe even would’ve managed to scrounge up some bits and pieces of advice, but, as it stood, his partner was due back any moment now and Julian was still here.

He’d been about to encourage Julian to head back to the Palace to confront his fears—subtly, without giving away that he had the ulterior motive of getting Julian to leave altogether—when he felt someone disturb wards to the front door the shop. Whoever the newcomer was, they disabled the wards within seconds, clearly familiar with them, and Asra had been able to guess their identity moments before they stepped inside.

“Muriel!” he greeted, relieved to see his childhood friend. 

As always, Muriel had come to his rescue, yet again.

Startled by the sound of the door opening and Asra’s voice calling out, Julian lifted his head and whipped around to look at the figure skulking in the entryway, and he jumped at the sight, shocked. “ _Scourge_?” he asked in disbelief, and then demurred at Asra’s sharp glare. Blushing, he shot Muriel a shaky smile in apology. “Ah, right, sorry. _Muriel_. I meant Muriel. I keep forgetting you’re friends with Asra.”

Scowling at Julian and refusing to dignify his stammering with a response, Muriel fully entered the shop and kicked the door shut behind him. Asra’s smile widened as Muriel tugged down his hood, allowing the magician to see just who his friend had curled around his shoulders. 

“And you’ve brought Faust!” Holding out a hand, Asra eagerly gestured for Muriel to step forward, and, once he was close enough, Faust slithered down Muriel’s front and onto Asra’s outstretched arm. “Welcome back,” he said to his familiar, and Faust stuck out her tongue in her best approximation of a smile. “Did Muriel take good care of you?”

 _“Fun!”_ Faust replied, hissing in delight.

Muriel must have run into Asra’s soulmate on his way to the shop, then, because that was the last person with whom Faust had been. Deciding to ask for the details later once Julian had left, Asra turned to Muriel and asked, “How are you? Do you need something?”

Expression dark, Muriel nodded towards Julian. “Him,” he said, clearly displeased.

Asra blinked. “Him?”

“... Me?” the man in question said nervously.

“Count Lucio ordered me to bring you back to the Palace,” Muriel answered, and he shoved the pair of boots Asra hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding into Julian’s chest. Gingerly, the doctor took the shoes from Muriel’s grasp, his face steadily draining of all color. “Put these on and hurry up.” 

“Oh,” Julian said, flustered. He turned the boots over in his hands, inspecting them with a shrewd eye, before he looked up at Muriel in gratitude. “You… brought me my shoes. Thank you.” 

“It wasn’t by choice,” Muriel grumbled. He exchanged a suspicious glance with Asra before telling Julian, “The Count said you’d left them in his room this morning—”

“ _Great_ —thank you again, dear Muriel! _Anyway_ ,” Julian cut off the gladiator inelegantly, voice going high-pitched in embarrassment, and he coughed to clear his throat. Asra stifled a laugh at his expense. “Let me just…” Setting the shoes on the floor, he slipped off his small sandals—were they _Lucio’s_ sandals, Asra wondered—and then slid his feet into his boots and straightened his clothes, trying to smooth out any of the lingering signs of the recent hitch in his composure. “Okay.” He coughed again. “Shall we?”

Annoyed at having been made to wait, Muriel frowned and said nothing, simply nodding silently in grudging agreement.

“Er… right.” Likely deeming Muriel a lost cause, Julian turned to Asra. “Before I go—thank you for your counsel, Asra. I’m sorry, I truly hadn’t meant to take up so much of your time.” He smiled. “See you tonight?”

“Tonight,” the magician confirmed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help.”

Julian shook his head. “You listened to me. That was help enough.”

At the other’s words. Asra sighed to himself, feeling slightly guilty for having wanted so badly to be rid of him. “I’ll read your cards tonight, Ilya, after I’ve read Lucio’s,” he promised. Pleasantly surprised, Julian nodded, and Asra smiled back.

They exchanged their farewells while Muriel stood to the side and watched as unobtrusively as someone of his height could, shuffling his feet as he waited. Goodbyes said, Julian made for the door and Muriel, as his escort, went to follow him, but Asra called him back at the last second.

“Oh, and Muriel?” he said, and both Julian and Muriel stopped and looked back. “We've missed you here at the shop, you know. You should join us again for dinner sometime soon.”

Face heating red enough to rival Julian’s usual blush, Muriel tugged at his collar, darting his eyes around the goods in the shop, attempting to focus on anything but at Asra. After a few moments of silence, at last he mumbled, “Maybe.” For Muriel, a man who never hesitated to say _no_ , a _maybe_ was as good as a _yes_.

Hustling Julian out of the shop, Muriel slammed the door behind them, Asra grinning and waving as they left. 

* * *

With an expert flourish, Nadia pressed the keys of the pipe organ for the last few notes of her song, humming along as the instrument trilled beneath her fingers and then fell silent. When she sat back and turned to face her audience, she saw Procurator Volta staring at her in awe, the woman’s hands shockingly devoid of any of the cakes and sandwiches on the tray before her. Next to her on the couch sat Consul Valerius, who was too busy draining another glass of wine to meet Nadia’s eyes.

“Wonderful!” Volta breathed. She began clapping appreciatively, expression wide-eyed and admiring. “You’re so talented, Countess!”

“Brava,” muttered Valerius, reaching for the now nearly empty bottle of wine on the table. After he’d refilled his glass, he took another long pull from it and sighed, leaning back against the couch cushions and adding under his breath, “You are a musician without peer.” His tone was as insincere as Nadia had come to expect from him.

“Thank you both—” Nadia began to say, but she was soon interrupted by the sound of the doors to the parlor screeching as they were thrown open and crashed into the walls on either side.

Unsurprisingly, it was Lucio who strode in through the doorway. No one else in the Palace heralded their own arrival with such unnecessarily loud entrances, Nadia thought, exasperated. However, Lucio _was_ looking a bit worse for the wear, more so than she had seen in some time: his hair was disheveled and there were dark circles under his eyes, and he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his sleeping attire, not heels but slippers on his feet and his silk robe belted loosely around his waist. At his side were his faithful hounds, and in one hand was a bottle Golden Goose that already seemed to have been opened while clutched in the other was a very familiar black coat.

“Count Lucio!” Volta cried, lifting her hands to her cheeks in worry. “Are you feeling well?”

“Get out,” was Lucio’s less than grateful response, and Nadia shot him a glare.

“Oh, dear,” Valerius tutted. Never one to know when to hold back, something to which his drinking habits could attest, he added archly, “You certainly don’t _look_ well, Count.” 

Lucio’s face went red with rage. “I said _out_!” he growled, his dogs rumbling threateningly in support, and Nadia stood hastily from the pipe organ’s bench when she saw him start to raise the bottle in his hand. Only mere moments from smashing the bottle over Valerius’s head, Lucio stopped and turned towards her instead.

She sighed in relief. While she agreed that Valerius’s comment had been unwarranted, especially considering it had been aimed at a dying man, the last thing she needed was for her husband to ruin a priceless vintage by clubbing _Valerius_ of all people with it. Not only would one of Nadia’s favorite drinks go to waste, but it would also only serve to dirty the parlor—if alcohol hadn’t killed Valerius yet, she doubted it ever would no matter the form it took, be it copious amounts of wine or the Count of Vesuvia hitting him with a bottle.

Volta had shrunk into the couch in fear at Lucio’s outburst, but Valerius didn’t so much as blink. Swirling his wine in his glass, he flicked a bored glance at the coat Lucio held. “Is that Doctor Devorak’s?” he asked, brow raised, the implication in his voice far from subtle.

Valerius was intent on dying today, it seemed.

“ _Thank you_ , Consul,” Nadia said sharply, before Lucio or his dogs could lunge for the man’s neck. Missing his claw had never kept Lucio from tearing out someone’s throat before, and she wanted to avoid having to ask the servants to scrub Valerius’s bloody remains from the couch if she could. “You’re dismissed.” Taking a deep breath, she looked at Volta and said more softly, “You too, Procurator.” 

“Of course, Countess!” Volta said. She stood and scrambled to grab as many sandwiches in her hands as she could. 

Nadia decided to intervene before she had to watch Volta stuff the sandwiches in her billowy sleeves. “Procurator?” she called. Pausing, Volta glanced up at her guiltily, and Nadia suppressed a smile. Volta had always been the one of the more honorable of people when it came to her and Lucio’s underlings; the woman deserved some kindness every now and then. “You may take the tray with you.”

“Oh!” Volta breathed. Without hesitation, she grabbed the tray from the table and bowed, beaming widely. “Thank you, Countess! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You are too good to me.” She bowed again, this time to Lucio. “Good day, Count.” 

She scurried from the room, abandoning Nadia and forcing her to endure Lucio and Valerius alone. Evidently still clinging to his death wish, Valerius was deliberately taking his time as he prepared to leave, sipping from his glass until it was empty once more and straightening his robes until they laid how he liked against his frame. Somehow, he hadn’t yet spontaneously burst into flames from the heat behind Lucio’s hateful glare.

The longer Valerius lingered, the closer Lucio came to slaughtering him.

“Thank you for your time today, Countess,” Valerius finally said, setting his glass on the table with a note of finality. Sidelong, he looked at Lucio. “Please—do give Doctor Devorak my regards, Count.”

The promise of violence flashed in Lucio’s eyes, but, much to Nadia’s amazement, the Count refrained from following through on it. “Oh, I see,” he hummed instead, a malicious grin spreading across his face. Instantly wary, Valerius stilled, narrowing his eyes. “Are you _jealous_ , Valerius?” 

Nadia hoped none of the shock she felt at Lucio’s words showed on her face, but Lucio’s quick, cruel wink in her direction told her she’d failed. 

Meanwhile, Valerius flushed in mortification. “Count Lucio—” he said, strangled.

Lucio cut him off. “I’m afraid you’ll have to beg for a spot in someone else’s bed now,” he said. Throwing Julian’s coat and the Golden Goose onto the couch, he moved to snag the empty bottle of wine from the table, and, with a smirk, he pressed it into Valerius’s hands. “Here. I need to talk to my wife, so go find somewhere else to drink yourself to death.” Leaning in, he snarled, voice low and dangerous, “Get. _Out_.”

Sufficiently humiliated, Valerius snatched the bottle from Lucio’s grip and stormed out, head ducked to avoid Nadia’s gaze. The parlor doors closed ominously behind him.

“Lucio…” Nadia said, uncertain where even to begin.

Lucio rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, Nadia,” he said. “I won’t let any harm come to your _precious couch_. You have my word.” 

Of course he’d been able to guess that Nadia’s worry had been less for Valerius’s sake and more for the sake of the parlor’s white couch. In Lucio’s own, special way, attacking Valerius verbally rather than physically had been an attempt on his part to be considerate. If Lucio had ever shown her any such consideration before, she would’ve been pleased; as it was, however, he hadn’t, and she was apprehensive of his thoughtfulness. 

“You owe me for that, by the way, Noddy,” he went on, sneering, and Nadia relaxed— _there_ it was.

Flinging himself onto the couch cushions with a dramatic sigh, Lucio snagged the Golden Goose from where he’d tossed it and took a swig, one of his dogs jumping up onto the couch to sit next to him while Nadia held back a reprimand. She didn’t want blood on her couch, no, but she didn’t want dog hair on it, either. Were Lucio not in such a clearly erratic, terrible mood, she would’ve asked him to tell his dog to get down. 

At least the dog had mostly lain down on top of Julian’s coat.

Was the one on the couch Mercedes? Yes, it had to be, Nadia thought: Melchior was the one with the torn ear, which meant Mercedes was the one currently resting her head in Lucio’s lap.

“I can’t _believe_ I let you talk me into letting that stupid hack sleep in my bed,” Lucio groused. Mercedes whined, attuned to her owner’s distress, and he used his free hand to scratch behind her ears comfortingly as he continued drinking the Golden Goose straight from the bottle.

Nadia assumed he meant Julian. With a sigh of her own, she sat back down on her bench, blinking in confusion as Melchior trailed after her instead of joining Lucio and Mercedes on the couch. Even with the couch occupied, there was still more than enough room for him to hop up if he so wished; he must have sat next to her of his own accord. Hesitantly, she reached out a hand to him, and Melchior sniffed it for a moment before he bumped it with the top of his head, angling for her to pet him.

Observing the scene without amusement, Lucio scowled at them. “Dumb dog,” the Count muttered, and then he tugged lightly on Mercedes’s ear when she growled at him in Melchior’s defense. “Hey! Shut up, will you? He started it!” 

How very like Lucio to argue childishly with his dogs. “Did something happen?” Nadia asked, curious. 

Even as she pet him, Melchior did nothing but sit stoically under her touch, returning Lucio’s glare with a flat look of his own. He’d been the one to encourage her to pet him, yet he obviously wasn’t enjoying it. 

“It’s _your_ fault, you know,” Lucio told her. Nadia raised a brow in question. “He’s mad a certain someone likes Mercedes more than him so he’s been acting like a brat all day.”

 _Well, Melchior learned from the best._ Biting back the insult, she repeated, “A certain someone?”

“Who do you _think_ , Noddy.” Her husband nodded at the coat pinned beneath Mercedes. “Tall? Idiot? Redhead? You _forced me to have a sleepover with him_ last night?”

“I didn’t _force_ you to do anything, Lucio,” Nadia told him, frowning. As if anyone could force Lucio to do anything—the man was as stubborn as they came. “Even if I’d said nothing, I doubt you would have left him in that chair.”

That was patently a lie—Lucio was petty and vindictive, and making Julian spend the night in a chair despite there being a bed not two feet in front of him was _exactly_ the kind of thing he’d do—but sometimes Nadia liked to believe Lucio to be a better person than he truly was, if only for her own peace of mind.

“I _should_ have!” Lucio argued. He fixed her with a bitter look. “That ungrateful bastard—I give him the best night’s sleep he’s ever had, and how he does he repay me? By running away as soon as he wakes up!”

That explained why Lucio had burst into the parlor in such an intense fury, then. As incensed as Julian’s departure had made him, Nadia thought she could understand why the doctor had chosen to run: she imagined waking up next to Lucio was an awful, uncomfortable thing, and not only because she’d caught him napping enough times to know that he snored.

“Well, he _is_ a doctor, isn’t he?” she reminded him lightly. “It’s entirely possible he had somewhere to be.”

Irate at the suggestion, Lucio gripped the bottle of champagne tightly enough that she feared it would shatter. “I’m his only patient!” he said, his shout so emphatically angry that it caused Mercedes’s ears to flatten against her head and Melchior to stiffen completely. “ _Me_. And he up and left anyway!” 

He looked seconds away from collapsing into a fit of pique and going on yet another rampage, one much the same as when he’d first stormed into the parlor and almost clobbered Valerius with a bottle of champagne. 

Hoping to calm him some, Nadia responded, “I think he was most likely worried as to how you would react.” 

Nearly everyone walked on eggshells around Lucio to avoid triggering one of his meltdowns, Julian included. While it was true Julian was safer from the repercussions of Lucio’s mood swings more so than others, the doctor himself didn’t know that, or at least he didn’t know _why_. Unlike his soulmate, Julian was compassionate and warm-hearted, and he didn’t seem the type who’d be willing to see how far he could push Lucio before the man reached his limit: this morning, fleeing Lucio’s bed had probably just been him trying to escape a confrontation, lest he run the risk of angering Lucio and making them both suffer the consequences.

“Yes, some thanks would not have been remiss,” Nadia added, because Lucio tended to relax more easily if given at least _some_ validation, “but I’m sure he didn’t want to disturb you.” 

Unfortunately, the effort to settle him proved quickly to be nothing but a waste.

“I _offered_ for him to _stay_ ,” Lucio snapped, “and he said _no_. Actually, he didn’t even _say_ no—he just _ran_!”

 _Julian…_ Nadia sighed to herself, grimacing. She knew the doctor must’ve had his reasons for leaving when he did, but for Lucio to sacrifice his ego and admit to Nadia that his invitation had been rejected? In a very roundabout, _Lucio_ -specific way, he’d essentially just told her that Julian had hurt his feelings, even if it’d been hidden in one of typical, juvenile complaints. 

“Lucio—” Nadia tried gently, but he cut her off.

“ _I’m his soulmate_!” Lucio roared.

His shout echoed throughout the parlor, leaving in its wake a deafening silence broken only by the sound of Lucio’s deep, enraged breathing, and Nadia thought she heard something crash outside in the corridor. Had he been loud enough to have been heard by the servants? 

Nadia stared at him, gaping. Huffing, red in the face and livid, Lucio set aside his drink and pushed—albeit carefully, so as not to hurt her—Mercedes’s head off of his lap, and then he stood. The Countess was worried he’d go back to his chambers, since she knew that, in this state, Lucio would kill the first person who so much as dared to look at him askance, but instead her husband stalked across the length of the room and began to pace.

“Noddy, I’m his _soulmate_!” he repeated, gesturing wildly with his hands, still hollering and livid. His robe’s sleeves fluttered with his every movement, occasionally exposing his wrist, and Nadia turned her gaze away from him, not wanting to catch any glimpses of the name on his skin. “Why doesn’t he just do what I want?! What could _possibly_ be more important than _me_?!” Stopping in his tracks, he whirled on her with a vicious look. “ _Nothing_! _I’m the most important person in this damn city_! So why am I _still_ not the most important to _him_?!” He took a deep breath and clenched his fists, his hands trembling. “ _Why did he run from me_.”

As he ranted and raved, Nadia realized it was the first time she thought Lucio _truly_ looked as ill as the Palace physicians claimed the Plague supposedly made him: the pained exhaustion in his eyes, the sickly pallor of his skin, the shakiness of his steadily thinning frame—that, plus the sullen resentment in his words… it was almost enough for her to feel bad for him.

Almost.

“I don’t know, Lucio,” she murmured. “You’ll have to ask him that yourself.”

At her answer, Lucio scoffed, glaring, and dropped back into his previous seat on the couch, hands immediately reaching for Mercedes. She obliged, whining in concern, and climbed fully into his lap; she was accompanied shortly by Melchior, who abandoned his grudge and left his position at Nadia’s feet, moving to sit on the couch at Lucio’s side.

“No— _he_ has to come to _me_ , first,” her husband told her. “Everything is _his_ stupid fault.” 

Any sympathy Nadia had begun to feel for him crumbled away in an instant. _As inflexible and selfish as ever_. Even the prospect of his soon approaching death wouldn’t bring him to senses, it seemed. Although she pitied him for his conviction that his soulmate did not want him, her pity only stretched so far; if only Lucio would _talk_ to Julian, then he’d see his situation wasn’t as hopeless as he’d feared. She’d had such a thought before, but if Lucio couldn’t overlook his pride long enough to make the first move, then he deserved to die alone. 

Unwilling to pursue the topic any further, Lucio jerked his head towards the pipe organ. “Play me something.”

Nadia quelled the urge to sigh yet again, instead choosing to turn towards the pipe organ and set her fingers back on the keys. It was a well-known fact that Lucio enjoyed music and unwound more easily when listening to it; he had a habit of pestering Julian to entertain him with the vielle, and he became so absorbed in the concerts he attended to the point that he ignored everything and everyone else around him, even declining to make snide remarks to Nadia the way he did when he dragged her to the theater or to the Coliseum. If a song on the pipe organ would placate him and thus save however many servants from having to deal with his current mood, then Nadia felt obligated to comply with his request.

“Well, since you asked so politely…” she said, mostly to herself. Now that she had her back to Lucio, she allowed herself to roll her eyes before she began to play.

Halfway through the song, Lucio’s hounds started to howl along, and, while Nadia found it annoying, Lucio was obviously of the opinion that their offbeat barking was somehow endearing. Elated by their poor attempt to sing along, he was distracted from gloomily drinking and brooding, and he forgot his bad temper in favor of encouraging Mercedes and Melchior to keep up their unskilled accompaniment. 

When Nadia pressed one of the keys to draw out the last note, Lucio began clapping. “Perfect!” he said, a broad smile on his face. The compliment was aimed at his dogs, whom he gave exaggerated, smacking kisses on the nose. Finally, he looked up at his wife, snickering. “You were pretty good too.”

The Countess shook her head and flipped to the next page of the score. “Would you ring for a servant?” she asked. “I’d like a glass. I assume you’re willing to share that Golden Goose?” Lucio’s mood swings never failed to give her a headache, and she was desperate to lighten it.

Lucio held out the bottle. “Here, just take a sip,” he offered, and Nadia pursed her lips in distaste. “Aw, come on, Noddy! There’s barely enough left for a glass, anyway.” 

“That’s disgusting,” she informed him. Whether she meant drinking straight from the bottle or that Lucio had already almost guzzled down the entire thing, she couldn’t say. “I said I’d like a _glass_.”

“Fine,” he grumbled.

He reached out and rang the bell on the table, its graceful chime summoning a servant in seconds. They must have heard Lucio’s shouting from before, Nadia figured, because they kept their heads bowed and wrung their hands while their Count spoke to them, their eyes darting nervously around the room. When Lucio dismissed them, they all but sprinted back into the halls. 

They returned in record time, bearing a champagne flute and an opened but untouched bottle of Golden Goose as per Lucio’s demands, which Lucio exchanged for the empty bottle after he downed what was left of it. The glass he filled and handed to Nadia, and the bottle he kept for himself. Nadia thought it was excessive, and, for Lucio’s sake, she requested that the servant return later with a light lunch for him—she had no doubt Lucio’s stomach would quickly become unsettled by all of his drinking and he’d inevitably end up needing something to calm it. Orders received, the servant scuttered away once more.

Once the servant had gone, Lucio turned to Nadia and asked her to play again, and she agreed if only for something to do. They spent the next two hours or so not quite comfortably, with her performing on the pipe organ and him slowly emptying his second bottle of champagne.

Nadia was relieved when a knock on the parlor doors suddenly interrupted her playing—her hands had begun starting to cramp, and Lucio was showing no signs of wanting her to stop.

However, she was _less_ relieved to see that what had arrived was not the Count’s lunch but was instead Muriel, who had the source of most of Lucio’s problems in tow. 

“Uh… good afternoon?” said Julian, smiling awkwardly. He blanched when he saw Lucio reclining on the couch.

Almost instantly, Lucio’s dogs rushed to greet him, barking excitedly and wagging their tails; in response, Julian’s smile brightened into something genuine, lighting up his features, and he dropped to his knees to give them both hugs, laughing and playfully away batting their snouts as they licked his face and nipped at his ears and fingers. Besides the Count himself, Julian was the only person Nadia had ever seen treat Mercedes and Melchior with anything even remotely resembling enthusiasm, and, in turn, he was one of the few Mercedes and Melchior deigned not to harass so rudely.

In fact, Muriel—the Coliseum’s favorite gladiator, Vesuvia’s undefeated champion—was currently edging away from them, expression wary as he tried to escape their notice.

“It always surprises me how good you are with them, Doctor,” Nadia said, rising from the pipe organ bench to meet him.

“Oh, I love dogs,” Julian told her absently, preoccupied as he was with ruffling Mercedes’s and Melchior’s fur. “I have one at home.”

“You have a dog?” came Lucio’s question from behind her. 

When she looked over her shoulder, Nadia observed him struggling to push himself off the couch and then wavering where he stood, the beginnings of a drunken flush staining his cheeks.  

Julian hurried to his side. “Are you all right?” he asked, concern heavy in his voice, hands reaching out to steady Lucio’s figure.

Lucio slapped the doctor’s hands away. “I don’t need your help,” he growled, and Nadia pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration—the man wouldn’t even let Julian try to help him as his _doctor_ , and yet he still expected Julian to desire him as his soulmate? Ridiculous. Clearing his throat, Lucio straightened his robe, cautiously keeping his right arm low enough that his sleeve fell over and covered his wrist. “Anyway. You have a dog?”

“Ah…” Julian hesitated, flicking an inquisitive glance Nadia’s direction, but all she had to offer him in answer was her own blank look. Brows furrowed in confusion, he looked back at Lucio. “Er, yes. Yes, I do. Her name is Brundle.”

“Well, I’ve never met her,” Lucio said, scowling, as if Julian having not brought Brundle to meet him was a personal offense. “Bring her to the Palace with you. I want to meet her. And Mercedes and Melchior deserve a playmate.” 

That… actually wasn’t too awful an idea, Nadia thought. “Would you please at least consider it, Doctor?” she asked. “Perhaps a playmate would be able to keep Mercedes and Melchior from tormenting the Palace staff.”

“Uh… if you want. Oh—my coat!” Julian’s eyes widened, startled, he grabbed his coat from its place on the couch. The coat was covered in Mercedes’s white dog hair, the color of it stark against Julian’s typical black clothing, and the doctor went to brush it off. Within seconds, he was frowning. “It… smells?” 

Lucio tore the coat from his grip, aggressively snatching it away. “If by that you mean it doesn’t reek like someone died and was buried in it, then, _yes_ , I agree. It _does_ smell.” He set a hand on his hip and glared. “I had it laundered.” 

“Oh…” The other blushed and, avoiding Lucio’s gaze, he went to take it again. “Um, thank you—”

“Ah, ah! I don’t think so.” The Count tugged it out of reach at the last moment, tutting exaggeratedly and shaking his head. “You can have this back _after_ you take a bath—otherwise you’re just going to make it smell like the dungeons again.”

“Um…” Julian bit his lip, hesitant. “I don’t…”

“You know what? I’ll have the servants draw you a bath in my wing,” Lucio said definitively, in a tone that brooked no argument. Nadia raised her brows at him, shocked and suspicious both, and he met her look with a worryingly mischievous smirk of his own before he spoke to Julian once more. “Be at my chambers in an hour.”

The doctor faltered, his mind scrambling to find an appropriate response. “Uh…” 

Curtly, either ignoring Julian’s protests and or taking them as tacit agreement, Lucio turned to Nadia again. “Don’t worry about lunch, Noddy,” he said. “I’ll have it sent to my room.”

“If you’re sure,” she replied.

“I am.” He nodded, and then he faced the parlor’s entrance. Muriel was loitering there, standing in complete silence and shuffling his feet, waiting to be dismissed. Lucio’s dogs sat at his feet, staring up at him in interest with their beady red eyes, and he was visibly uncomfortable with them watching him so closely. “Scourge!”

Muriel frowned. “Yes, sir?” he answered through gritted teeth. 

“Walk me to my chambers.” Lucio stalked towards him and held out his arm, and Muriel, unable to say no, looped his own arm through the Count’s in support, though his glower was dark and hateful. With the difference in their heights, they made a comical pair, Muriel having to slouch because Lucio refused to be the one to accommodate _him_. Before Lucio dragged the gladiator through the doors, he paused and flashed a grin over his shoulder, and the red on Julian’s face deepened. “Remember, Jules—one hour. Don’t be late.”

Muriel pulled the doors shut behind them, and they resonated against the frame with an ominous _clang_. Nadia was officially trapped inside the parlor along with an increasingly anxious Julian, who was almost hyperventilating in fright. 

At least Lucio had forgotten the Golden Goose. She couldn’t even _begin_ to pretend to guess Lucio’s motivations, let alone explain them to the doctor, so she merely picked up the bottle and handed it to Julian with an apologetic smile. There were but a few dregs left, but she had a strong feeling he needed the drink more than she did.

“Champagne, Doctor?” she asked.

He sighed. “Please.”

* * *

The champagne, unfortunately, did nothing: when he went to meet the servant stationed on the steps to Lucio’s wing, he was still painfully, _painfully_ sober, and was forced to shoulder the full weight his anxiety without the haze of alcohol lighten it.

“Here. You’ve been asked to wear this.” 

After leading him to a small guest room, the servant—whose name he’d already forgotten—pushed a bundle of fabric into his hold. Julian took it, hands shaking, and unfolded it and held it up against his front: it was a black robe, sheer and airy, edged with a lining the color of a coppery, dark gold, and it came complete with an intricate belt. The robe was finely made—probably the most expensive article of clothing he’d ever been given—and he was terrified he’d ruin it somehow, maybe by poking holes in it with his bony elbows.

As if sensing his thoughts, the servant added archly, “Be careful with it.”

“Uh… okay.” He lowered the robe and stared at the servant in confusion, wincing as they returned his helpless look with a flat, dull one of their own. Their expression clearly communicated they believed this to be a waste of their time and that they’d rather be anywhere else, and Julian didn’t fault them for it. “I have to wear this… in the bath…?” 

“Yes, in the bath,” they said patronizingly slowly, brows raised. “You’re to use Count Lucio’s private bathing pool. You must be in the appropriate attire.” They shook the bottom of the robe to emphasize their point. “And he has _specifically_ requested you be dressed in this, so you will dress in this.”

Julian’s grip on the robe tightened. It’d been _Lucio’s_ idea for him to wear something this absolutely see through?

“I see…” he mumbled, reluctant. He shifted from foot to foot, waiting, but, even after a few moments, the servant didn’t leave. He cleared his throat and looked away, gesturing loosely to his own outfit. “So, should I…?”

“Yes, please change,” the servant said, yet they neither exited nor turned around.

“Um…” He didn’t want to be rude and kick them out of the room, exactly, but he did tend to prefer privacy when it came to undressing.

“Ah.” Finally, the servant understood. “I’m sorry, Doctor, but I’ve been instructed to collect your clothing immediately so that it may be incinerated.”

“W-Wait, _incinerated_?” Julian repeated, spluttering. “What do you mean, _incinerated_?” 

“The Count has ordered your wardrobe be replaced in its entirety, as well as be laundered regularly,” they explained. “You will be provided with a new set of clothing following your bath.”

“But… my clothes are fine?” he answered, frowning. “I don’t need anything new.”

“Well, Count Lucio does not seem to agree,” was the servant’s simple, deadpan response. They tapped their foot impatiently. “Now, if you would please change into your robe, Doctor, then we shall be on our way. I imagine the bath is ready by now.”

“Er, right.” He paused. “Could you…?” Uneasily, he twirled his finger in a circle, a sheepish smile on his face. “Perhaps…?” 

The servant huffed and rolled their eyes, but they complied nonetheless. Spinning on their heel until they faced the wall, they even went so far as to clap their hands over their eyes with unnecessarily exaggerated motions. Julian refused to let their obvious annoyance with him bother him as he divested himself clothes. To stall for time, he folded each item as he took it off, stacking them into a neat pile. When he realized he’d have to remove his gloves, he hesitated, but the servant heard the rustling of his clothes cease and they loudly coughed. Red faced, he hurriedly slid his gloves off, too, and added them his growing heap of clothes. 

The name on the underside of his wrist glared back at him, its lettering dark and bold against his skin, demanding his attention at the cost of all else the way it did when he had it uncovered; sighing fondly, he brushed his thumb across the mark in an idle attempt to soothe to whomever it connected him—if the feelings he got from it truly meant anything and were an actual indication, then the person on the other end was becoming increasingly restless as of late. Releasing another sigh, this one deeper, he mentally apologized to his soulmate before he turned his wrist over and put them and their mark from his mind.

Montag could wait. Lucio, however, could not. 

Julian shook his head and slipped his arms through the robe’s sleeve. Once he finished fastening the belt and the robe hung as comfortably from his frame as he could get it to, he called, “Ready!” 

The servant turned back around. Gaze piercing, they took a moment to inspect him from head to toe, and Julian flushed under the scrutiny. With the thinness of the robe’s fabric, the servant was no doubt able to see _everything_. Coughing, Julian tugged the sleeve down over his wrist to hide his mark, gripping it tightly; the movement caught the servant’s attention and their eyes flew to his wrist, but, even if they’d noticed why he’d adjusted the sleeve, they pursed their lips and said nothing. 

“It’ll do,” the servant announced. They held out their hands expectantly. “Your clothes, Doctor.”

“Oh… right.” Julian placed the pile of his clothes into the servant’s outstretched arms. He imagined there’d be no stopping Lucio from doing as he pleased with the clothing, not if he’d already decided to have them destroyed, but Julian still hoped the servant would spare his gloves if he asked. “If you could, um, maybe _not_ incinerate my gloves? I’d… well, I’d really appreciate it.” 

“I will ask Count Lucio,” they replied, and Julian exhaled miserably. That was as good as giving his gloves the death sentence, which surely the servant knew.  

Noticing the other’s despair at the prospect of losing his gloves, the servant’s resolve crumbled just the slightest bit, and they cleared their throat and added, “But… if I were to _lose_ your gloves, somehow, and they were to mysteriously make their way back to you, could you be convinced not to question it?”

“Huh?” Julian blinked. After the servant’s meaning sunk in, he nodded gratefully. “Oh, uh, yes! That’s—yes.” He mimed buttoning his lips shut. “I won’t say a word. Well, besides thank you, I mean. I would, of course, thank you.”

“No, no, don’t thank me,” the servant said. They narrowed their eyes at him. “I’m not doing anything, do you understand? So there’s no reason to thank me.”

 _Ah_. “Understood.”

Julian winked, and, rather than swooning over his charm and good looks, the servant merely shook their head in exasperation. It was only slightly disappointing—he figured it would’ve been more so if he actually had any charm or good looks of which to speak.

“Please follow me,” they said. 

They led Julian back out into the corridor, where he saw another servant standing by a door close to Lucio’s personal suite. The two servants exchanged greetings, and then the one who’d given him the robe departed, telling Julian he was now under the care of the other servant.

This servant could not have been any more different from their colleague, he thought. They were agitated and fidgety, twisting their hands together and tugging on the sash tied around their waist, and they wouldn’t look at him directly for longer than a second, eyes darting constantly from him to the stone floor to the paintings on the walls.

“Um…” they squeaked. “S-So you’re Count Lucio’s…”

Julian frowned. He’d never thought of himself as particularly scary, but he supposed that, in the right lighting, he could pass for the undead, and Lucio’s wing was nothing if not poorly lit. Ostensibly, Lucio claimed it was to ease the strain on his eyes, but Julian knew the real reason was most likely because he enjoyed watching Asra light the burners with magic; he kept the torches extinguished so he could badger Asra into sparking a flame for them whenever the magician was around, and, since Asra _wasn’t_ here at the moment, the torches were predictably unlit.

Still, Julian didn’t think his presence warranted a reaction of _this_ severity. 

Lowering his voice to a tone far softer than the one he regularly used, he encouraged kindly, “I’m Count Lucio’s…?”

Flinching, the servant swallowed. “Um, d-doctor,” they mumbled, and Julian knew instantly that _doctor_ wasn’t what they’d originally intended to say.

He was curious, but, for the servant’s sake, he’d let it go. He was certain that pressing the other for more would only end badly, and he didn’t need anyone fainting right now.  

“I am,” he confirmed, offering a smile. “And you are?”

They glanced at him before quickly looking away again. “I’ll take you to the bath,” they said, high-pitched with distress.

Julian’s brows furrowed. Had he offended them? Or did they still think him a vampire? He’d gotten that before—between his pale skin and his habit of conducting business even after sundown and his preference for leeches to drain blood, accusations that he was a vampire weren’t foreign to him. 

He opened his mouth to ask but closed it again when the servant shot him a desperate look, obviously pleading for him to stay silent. Satisfied once he pressed his lips together, the servant went and unlocked the door, and they waved for Julian to follow along as they stepped into the bathing chambers.

His jaw went slack in shock as he saw what laid behind the door. Apparently, the other servant hadn’t said the words _bathing pool_ lightly: carved into the marble floor, the bath was indeed a veritable _pool_ , large enough to fit at least ten people comfortably. 

Just like the corridor, the inside of the room was dark, lit by only a few candles housed in golden candelabra, and on the water in the bath floated tealights which had been placed inside holders made to resemble white roses. The water itself was an inviting pink hue; it was scented heavily of roses, and up from its surface curled tendrils of a lighter pink steam, obscuring the dark curtains that hung in front of the doors to the room’s attached veranda.

To call the bath a simple word like _luxurious_ would be to deal it a gross insult, but it was all Julian had. 

“This is…” He turned to ask the servant if there had been some kind of mistake, but they had already gone, having escaped while he’d been admiring the room. “Too much,” he finished quietly.

The bath was a trap—it had to be. Lucio wouldn’t have arranged this for him unless he wanted something, and Julian was hesitant to accept until he knew for certain what it was that Lucio wanted.

Then again, the bath probably _would_ get cold before he’d have the opportunity to ask Lucio what he wanted… If the bath _were_ a trap, at least Julian would be able to die in style.

That settled, he sunk into the water with a relieved sigh, leaning against the edge of the pool and spreading his arms out. Lucio may have been an obnoxious tyrant, but the man’s taste for extravagance was second to none. The water was hot but not too hot, smelled heavenly, and Julian felt his eyes slipping closed the longer he lay against the edge. 

“Enjoying the bath?”

Julian jumped at the sound of Lucio’s voice, water splashing over the sides of the bath with the startled movement. _Of course_ , he thought, grimacing. The trap had been set, and he’d fallen for it like a fool. He had no doubt Lucio was gloating something fierce.

When he opened his eyes, though, all he found was Lucio watching him expectantly, brow raised and hands on his hips.

Julian’s mouth went dry at the sight of him. If he’d thought the Count looked good before, it was _nothing_ compared to now: Lucio was draped in a robe much like one Julian had on, thin and delicate, although his was white and it shimmered golden in the candlelight; his hair was tousled and wisps of it was stuck to his cheeks from where he’d tucked them back behind his ear; and the golden bracelets adorning his wrists must have cost him no small fortune.

Standing on the edge of the pool, one step away from entering the bath, with the pink steam coiling around him and lit only by the light of the candles, he was the most beautiful person Julian had ever seen.

Julian must’ve spent too long gaping at him, because Lucio smirked. “So… yes, then,” he simpered. He glanced down at the trays near his feet, on top of which rested various colorful, unlabeled bottles. “You didn’t use any of the bath salts?”

“Bath salts?” Julian repeated.

“From Nevivon,” Lucio answered. He stooped to grab one from the tray, his robe falling open slightly, and Julian flushed and averted his eyes. “I only have the finest, and Nevivon is known for their salt baths.”

Julian regained some of his ability to function at that. “Nevivon?”

“Do you always get this stupid when you take a bath?” Lucio asked. He straightened and uncapped the bottle he’d chosen, giving it a cursory sniff before dumping its entire contents into the bath. The tangy scent of lavender and orange dispersed throughout the room, and it reminded Julian of picking stalks of lavender at Portia’s insistence when they were children, a memory he hadn’t thought about in years. “ _Yes_ , genius, bath salts from Nevivon. Ever heard of it?”

“I… yes.” Debating how much to share, Julian eventually told him, “I’m… from Nevivon, actually.” He supposed that, if Lucio _really_ wanted to know where he considered home, he’d be able to find it out for himself, anyway.

“Hm.” Unaffected by the revelation, Lucio proceeded to empty another bottle into the bath water, this one scented like sandalwood. He looked at Julian askance. “I’ve never had the chance to go see the sights. You’ll take me there and show me around, won’t you?”

“Uh.” Julian cleared his throat. “I-I guess?”  

“After you cure the Plague, of course,” Lucio added. He waved a hand in the air. “So your sister’s also from Nevivon?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Portia, right?” Julian frowned—he’d never mentioned his sister’s name to Lucio, so how did the Count know it? It was fine for Lucio to investigate _him_ , but Portia deserved to be left alone. Dragging Portia into the mess his life had become, no matter how peripherally, was crossing a line. Before he could ask, Lucio went on. “Does she look like you?”

“I-I don’t know, I haven’t seen her in a long time, but we resembled each other when we were younger.” He refused to allow the guilt that came with that admission to distract him. “How did you know her name?”

Caught, Lucio froze. He floundered for a response for a moment before he settled on an uncomfortable grin and decided to lie. “You’ve—uh, _you_ were the one who told me about Portia, Jules! Don’t you remember?”

 _No._ “Right…” 

That was blatantly false, but Lucio would just become indignant if Julian continued to question him. He’d simply have to ask Nadia later. 

“You’ll have to tell me more about her some time,” Lucio said, and then he summarily changed the subject. “Scoot over.”

Julian watched with dread as Lucio dipped his toe into the water to test the temperature.  

Lucio was… joining him in the bath. _Oh, no,_ he panicked, heart starting to race. _No, no, no_.

The Count walked down onto the first step that led into the water, the water rising to his ankles, before he bowed his head to untie the belt holding his robe shut and his hands moved to undo it. “Do you mind,” he asked lowly, glancing up at Julian from underneath his lashes, and Julian’s heart stuttered in his chest, briefly robbing him of his breath. 

“U-Uh…” Julian was torn between _yes_ and _no_ —both of which were awful options—and, while he fumbled for an answer, Lucio took the liberty of slipping his arms through the robe’s sleeves. _Shoot_. Looking away, Julian coughed, the noise hoarser than he’d have liked. “I, um. S-Sure. I… I guess you can, uh. Um. Go ahead, you know, with, uh… with that.” 

He heard the sound of Lucio laughing, accompanied by the rustling of fabric as the other fully removed his robe and dropped it onto the ledge of the bath, and he didn’t turn his head back around until the splashing and then settling of the water indicated Lucio had submerged himself in the bath up to his chest. 

Thankfully, the water was a dark enough pink to hide everything. The sheer prospect of soaking with the Count of Vesuvia in the Count’s private bathing chambers was anxiety-inducing enough, but to do so while the Count was _nude_ except for his jewelry… It was both a dream and a nightmare in one. If Lucio weren’t _Lucio_ , this would have been exciting.

Whatever tension Julian felt had been starting to brew between them was suddenly shattered when the doctor caught a glimpse of where Lucio’s prosthetic met flesh. Even after so much time spent healing, the scar was still angry and red, a sharp contrast to Lucio’s smooth complexion, and it seemed almost painful. Before Lucio could realize he was looking at it and throw a fit, Julian glanced away from his arm and met his eyes.

Trying to reestablish a sense of normalcy, he asked, “So, uh, can I… help you with anything?”

Lucio shrugged, deceptively casual. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh.” _And you couldn’t have done that literally anywhere else?_ “Well… okay.”

Abandoning his facade of relaxed familiarity, Lucio squared his shoulders and pinned Julian to his spot with a furious glare. “ _Why_ ,” he drawled, drawing the word out for suspense and raising a brow, “did you _run_?”

Julian shook his head. “What do you mean?” He didn’t have the first clue as to what Lucio meant: he’d run from enough things that he needed the other to be more specific in order for him to answer the query honestly. 

“This morning, in bed,” Lucio clarified, and Julian’s heart stopped. “I told you to stay, but you decided to take off instead.”

That was a question to which Julian hadn’t yet dared venture a guess, even to himself. He supposed it was because he already _knew_ the answer, but he had enough experience in ignoring his problems until they blew up in his face to think that he could avoid dealing with this for _just_ a little bit longer. 

But Lucio had effectively destroyed _that_ plan; in the bath with him like this, the atmosphere calm and intimate, Julian could hardly focus enough to formulate a half-truth he thought Lucio would find satisfactory.

The bath was officially a trap.

“Oh, I—” Julian began awkwardly, but Lucio cut him off.

“If you lie to me, I’ll kill you,” the Count promised.

 _Great_. The doctor pursed his lips, wracking his brain for something that’d make sense, and what he finally managed to piece together was a blend of candor and deceit. 

He desperately hoped Lucio would accept it.

“It’s, uh. Well. I’m your doctor,” he said. “I know better than most that you should be resting without, I don’t know, someone disturbing you by twitching in their sleep.” He chanced a smile, but Lucio didn’t return it.

“Mercedes found you to be a good pillow, so I doubt you moved _that_ much,” the other replied. “And you didn’t give Melchior an opportunity to try you out as a pillow, either. He’s still mad about that and he’s been taking it out on _me_. You owe him.”

Julian sighed. Was that Lucio’s way of inviting him _back_ into his bed? How was he supposed to turn him down, especially after Lucio had used such a devious trick like stripping out of his robe in front of him to figure out whether or not Julian found him attractive? There was no doubt Lucio had missed the way he’d reacted.

He was at a loss—Nazali hadn’t trained him for this. 

“W-Well…” he muttered. 

Julian turned his head to cough into his fist, but, when he faced Lucio again, he saw that Lucio had waded through the water to stand directly in front of him. Even with Julian leaning back against the edge of the bath, Lucio was still shorter than he was, but the doctor shrank under the intensity of his red gaze nonetheless.

“Jules.” Lucio’s voice was a soft murmur, and he lifted his golden hand out of the water to set it on Julian’s shoulder, close to the crook of his neck. Stepping even closer, gently brushing his thumb across the dip in his clavicle and then up the column of his neck, Lucio didn’t stop until he and Julian were nearly chest to chest, and he smirked at the other’s shiver. “Listen to me.” 

Julian felt as though his face was on fire. He was hyper-aware of the cool touch of Lucio’s mechanical hand, as well as the droplets of water it had sent sliding down his chest. “I-I’m listening,” he said.

Lucio hummed. “At this point, I don’t care if you don’t want me,” he all but purred, and then, abruptly, his mood switched: his hand tightened on Julian’s throat, his grip not strong enough to choke but still pressing on and constricting his airway, and his brows drew together in fury, eyes blazing. “But you are _not_ allowed to run from me. Nobody runs from me and lives. Do you understand?” He squeezed more firmly, adding more pressure around Julian’s throat, and he stood on his toes as if to kiss him as he whispered, “You’re _mine_.”

Julian swallowed. Only once he nodded in understanding did Lucio release his hold on his neck and take a step back.  

“As long as that’s clear,” Lucio said. He swanned to the other side of the pool and climbed the stairs to get out, slipping his robe back on in one fluid motion. He readied himself to leave the bath chamber, tying the robe’s belt and running his fingers through his hair, and the doctor watched him in stunned silence. “See you tonight.”

Julian shook his head. “Um… sure.” 

Pausing in his motion to open the door, Lucio didn’t turn around, but he did toss him a sharp, threatening grin over his shoulder. “It wasn’t a question.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: "people typically don't switch between emotions this fast without warning" me to me: "ok but it's lucio"
> 
> lucio's still got leverage over muriel and asra but lucio is god tier Stupid (as is julian) so everybody's favorite good boy muriel is still able to sneak away and hang out w/ asra (and mc) sometimes but they also have literally zero communication skills btwn themselves so they still don't know lucio is manipulating them both. clearly i am a fan of the "these weenies could solve all their problems if they just _talked_ " cliche.
> 
> up next: brundle. all dogs are good and we don't deserve them.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys, every single one of your comments gives me life. i can't tell you how much i appreciate your encouraging words. i know, i know, im a big weenie, but i go back and read them all the time.
> 
> bit of a shorter chapter but hey this story is FINALLY getting somewhere (kind of)
> 
> just think of this as like, a naruto filler episode

This was probably the most Brundle had ever moved in her entire life. Even as a puppy, she hadn’t been very impressed by Julian’s attempts to play with her, always preferring to curl up in his lap or in her bed than to go outside for a walk, and age had just made her less inclined to do anything besides eat, sleep, and watch him disapprovingly with her big, doleful eyes.

“Brundle!” Lucio called. She sprinted to his side, panting, her tail wagging, and he scooped her up into his arms despite her size and kissed the top of her head, grinning all the while. She wasn’t as big as Mercedes and Melchior, no, but she was still too heavy for Julian to pick up without his muscles straining under the effort. Meanwhile, Lucio—who’d even been steadily losing his strength due to the Plague—had lifted her and was hugging her to his front easily, without even breaking a sweat. _Showoff._ “You’re too good for Jules, aren’t you, cutie? Tell him you want to stay here with me and not be left alone to rot at his ratty old clinic. Go on!”

Brundle barked in agreement and leaned up to lick his cheek. Lucio shot Julian a smirk before he set her back down on the ground, letting go of her with one strong pat on her side, and she sat herself in the grass at his feet and stared at him adoringly, hearts in her eyes.

Julian was officially torn between annoyance and fondness. He’d had the idea of using Brundle to test whether or not he could trust Lucio by seeing if she liked him for some time now, but he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to figure out what he’d do if Brundle _did_ end up liking Lucio. 

And Brundle didn’t just _like_ him—she _loved_ him.

Things had been uncomfortable between Lucio and himself ever since what had happened in the bath, whatever _that_ had been. He wasn’t too proud to admit the tension was mostly his fault: after what he figured he could loosely describe as their discussion, Lucio had acted normally towards him, demanding various forms of entertainment from him and whining like a child on the occasions Julian tried to do his job as his doctor; whereas Julian, on the other hand, had been unable to meet Lucio’s eyes or speak to him without stammering for at least a week.

Every night, when he’d gone to bed, he’d lain there in his cot, the thin blanket pulled up to his chin, and he’d glared up at the ceiling for upwards of an hour while Lucio’s words— _you’re mine_ —rattled around in his head and prevented him from falling asleep. 

Although she’d been kind enough not to ask for details, Nadia had suggested he bring Brundle to the Palace to meet Lucio as an attempt to lessen some of the awkwardness between them, and Julian had jumped at the chance to do so. He had no doubt Lucio would like Brundle—the man loved every animal he’d ever come across except for Faust, something in which Asra took great satisfaction—but if Brundle liked Lucio back, then it’d provide him a clear sign that the Count of Vesuvia wasn’t as entirely terrible as he seemed.

The Countess had graciously arranged a time for Julian to return to town to collect his dog and then bring her back to the Palace, and, not even fifteen minutes into letting Brundle loose in the Palace gardens, it seemed as if she’d already decided that Lucio was more than worthy of her friendship. As anticipated, Lucio appeared to be just as smitten with her as she was with him.

Their instant connection was both endearing and frustrating in turn. It wasn’t obvious, but Lucio treated Brundle differently than he did Mercedes and Melchior—though he was loving and playful with them too, they were his guard dogs first and foremost, and they were sleek and menacing and had been bred to defend. Brundle, however, was essentially a dog-shaped lump, all rolls and wrinkles and meant to be a companion more than anything, and she relished hugs and kisses whereas sometimes Lucio’s dogs pulled away, even from their owner. Lucio was clearly delighted by her willingness to receive affection; he hadn’t stopped petting her for longer than a couple of seconds aside from when she’d had to use the bathroom, and Brundle was thriving under his attention.

The frustration came with the realization that, _because_ Brundle loved Lucio, Julian would have to reconcile _that_ with… everything else. It’d be best if he did his thinking while drunk, he figured—a visit to the Rowdy Raven was in order, or perhaps another night on Nadia’s balcony with Nadia and Asra and a few bottles of wine. If he chose to go the latter route, it was possible he’d even be able to summon enough drunken courage to insist that Asra explain what he’d meant by his comment the other day.

For as much as Lucio’s _you’re mine_ had been refusing to give Julian a moment’s peace, Asra’s _you know, then_ had been bothering him as well.

“Can she play fetch?” Lucio asked, the sound of his voice interrupting Julian’s meditative quiet.

Julian shook his head. “Who, Brundle?” Hearing her name, Brundle turned away from Lucio to look at him and tilted her head. When Lucio nodded, he let out a soft chuckle and crossed his arms. “Ah… no, she can’t, I’m afraid. To be honest, today is the first day I’ve seen her run in _years_.”

“Oh?” Lucio grinned down at her, and her tail began thumping against the ground as he crouched to scratch behind her ears. The scene was alarmingly touching. “She must like me, then.”

 _You have no idea_ , Julian thought to himself, sighing. Brundle hadn’t even been this happy to meet _Asra_ , and, unlike Lucio, Asra was actually somewhat likable.

To distract himself from that worrying line of thought, Julian asked, “Do Mercedes and Melchior know how to play fetch?”

Lucio rolled his eyes at the question. “It depends on their mood,” he muttered, but a pleased smile spread across his face again as Brundle licked his fingers. “I bet I could teach her.”

“She really doesn’t like to move,” Julian told him.

“Well, she seems fine to me,” the Count replied. He tapped Brundle on the nose, snickering lightly as it caused her to sneeze. “I’ll teach her to play fetch another day—she should be spending her time getting used to Mercedes and Melchior right now.”

“Wait, another day?” Julian asked, confused. “You… seriously want me to bring her back?” He didn’t know why he was surprised, considering how sweet on her Lucio obviously already was.

“Jules, come _on_. You’re a doctor, aren’t you? There’s no way you’re this dumb.” Lucio glanced at him, brow raised. “She’s staying at the Palace from now on.”

Julian froze. “Um, what?” 

 _Brundle_? At the _Palace_? No, that wouldn’t do. He loved Brundle more than life itself—which, admittedly, wasn’t the best comparison but emphasized the point well enough—but Lucio had contracted him to find the Plague, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to leave Brundle to her own devices, knowing she was somewhere nearby; and, even if he _did_ manage to keep her from his mind, who knew how long it would take him to withdraw from the haze in which research typically put him and remember her? He hated to think of his dog as a distraction, but she’d only serve to interfere with his work.

“Count Lucio, please,” he said weakly. “I can’t research a cure for the Plague and take care of her at the same time.” It was why he’d left her at the clinic and had asked some friends to mind her in his stead.

“You won’t have to,” the Count answered, frowning. “She’ll still be your dog, but _I’ll_ be the one taking care of her on the days you can’t.”

“Oh, no, I-I couldn’t possibly ask that of you—”

“You’re not asking. I’m _offering_.” Lucio scoffed and shook his head. “Actually, no—I’m telling you what’s going to happen. You don’t really have a choice.”

Taking care of Brundle was a shockingly kind thing for the Count to put forward. Throat dry, the doctor coughed to clear it, but it continued to itch. “But… why?” he pressed, voice still hoarse. “Why, uh, why would you do that?”

“Because I like her, you idiot. And, I mean, she’s your _dog_ , isn’t she? Dogs shouldn’t be separated from their owners.” Lucio took Brundle’s chin in hand and turned her head towards Julian, squishing her cheeks together. “Plus, just look at this face! She _wants_ to live here. Don’t you, girl?”

Julian felt his resolve cracking under the combined weight of Lucio and Brundle’s pleading stares. It made sense, he supposed: if Brundle lived in the Palace, all Julian would have to do in order to find her and cuddle with her would be to exit the dungeon and walk down a few hallways. She would be well cared for if she were with Lucio when she couldn’t be with him, too. Lucio catered to his dogs’ every whim, but, while Mercedes and Melchior were spoiled, they were also happy and healthy, and they loved their owner so much that they’d dedicated to him their undying loyalty. 

If Lucio looked after Brundle even _half_ as well as he did Mercedes and Melchior, then Brundle would be in good hands indeed.

No matter how good a deal it seemed, it still meant that Julian would be indebted to _Lucio_ of all people, and who knew what Lucio would demand as payment? Lucio’s kindness always came at a price—like the bath, for instance. He’d allowed Julian a soak in his private bath, and then he’d used the opportunity to corner him and had subsequently robbed Julian of any peaceful sleep the following week. 

“I-I’d have to go back and get her things…” Julian said, trying to decline politely.

Lucio wouldn’t hear it. “So? I’ll buy her new things,” he retorted. Before Julian could respond, he held up a hand to silence him preemptively, expecting another protest. “Jules, she’s staying at the Palace—end of discussion.”

At least Lucio would be able to provide Brundle with the constant attention and the extravagant lifestyle she rightfully deserved. Knowing Brundle relied on him had once or twice in the past been the only thing to pull Julian back from the brink of despair, thoughts of her having stilled his hands before he’d done something he’d ultimately regret, so maybe letting Lucio pamper her was an appropriate reward for all she’d done? 

“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” Lucio said, even though he’d hardly given Julian any time to decide; then again, Julian’s opinion hadn’t mattered in the first place.

Regardless, Julian still consented with a mumbled, “Okay.”

Lucio grinned, smug. “Glad you’re seeing things my way.” He stroked the fur over Brundle’s neck, a distressingly contemplative look in his eyes. The last time Julian had seen that expression on the other’s face, Lucio and Nadia had been shoving Asra into a colorful monstrosity that, according to Nadia, was supposed to have passed for _fashion_. “She’ll need a collar.”

“No gold, please?” Julian asked. Brundle was a simple dog with simple tastes, and, though she was owed the finer things, an ostentatious golden collar like Mercedes’s and Melchior’s would look out of place around her neck. With no small amount of dread, he also recalled that Mercedes and Melchior had priceless rubies dangling from their collars. “Or… or precious gems or anything like that. Just—nothing that could sustain a small village for a year.”

“Are you _trying_ to ruin my fun?” Lucio said, scowling. “I’ll put her in whatever I damn well please.” He scrutinized Brundle for a moment before he shook his head and muttered, “But, no, you’re right—gold’s not her color.”

The collar Lucio eventually bestowed upon her wasn’t gold with rubies but instead a silver with diamonds, which Julian thought Lucio had done particularly to spite him. Even though the collar must have cost Lucio more money than Julian would ever see in his entire lifetime, at least its style was understated. It suited Brundle well, and she didn’t once try to tear it from her neck.

Much to Julian’s pleasant surprise, his dog fit into life at the Palace well—it was as if she’d been the missing piece of the puzzle. Lucio doted on her as he did his own dogs, and even Mercedes and Melchior themselves seemed to enjoy her presence, although Julian still wasn’t convinced Lucio’s dogs knew she wasn’t just a new toy for them. Every now and then, the servants had a problem with her falling asleep in front of closed doors and locking the room’s occupants inside, lest they open the door, disturb her, and inevitably face the Count’s wrath; but, thankfully, a small bed in Julian’s private office in the dungeons effectively solved that. 

He didn’t like Brundle being in the dungeons, but she would always whine pitifully whenever she saw him take the lift, and Julian never failed to cave and take her with him. He had to admit it was nice to have company down there other than his antisocial colleagues and _Valdemar_. Her bed in his study quickly became her favorite spot to snooze, and the Palace staff grew relieved as they saw less and less of her napping in the hallways or in front of doors.

When she wasn’t dozing in Julian’s office, she was most likely curled up in Lucio’s bed. At first, she’d been content to sleep at Lucio’s feet, either not touching or barely touching him, but she’d quickly wriggled her way into the crook of Lucio’s arm, resting her head on his chest and drooling on his robe. She wasn’t in Lucio’s bed _too_ often; though, on the occasions she was, Mercedes and Melchior graciously indulged her and let her have Lucio all to herself.

Julian had been playing the vielle for them—Asra, Nadia, Lucio, and the dogs—one night on the Count’s orders when the man had nodded off, Brundle soon following suit. Unbothered by her deafening snoring in his ear and her sleep-induced slobbering, Lucio had kept his prosthetic arm tightly wound around her, cuddling her close to his middle while Mercedes and Melchior warmed his legs and feet. All of them snuggled up together like that, they’d created a scene so charming that Julian’s fingers had ached for a pencil and his sketchbook in order to keep the image with him forever. Distracted, he’d unknowingly allowed his vielle playing to slow and eventually stop, taken aback by how inviting slipping into Lucio’s next to the Count and Brundle began to seem.

It was _that_ thought that had been enough to send Julian to the Rowdy Raven and make him get mind numbingly drunk.

“I just don’t understand,” he slurred, talking to a blurry figure that he hoped was Asra and not a coat rack. It was possible, considering Asra’s ability to emote when he wasn’t around his soulmate tended to be on par with that of furniture. _Or maybe that’s just when he’s around Lucio_. At that thought, Julian moaned and lowered his head down onto the table’s surface, gripping his hair tightly. _Stop thinking about Lucio_. “Why is my life like this.”

“Ilya…” Asra sighed—so it _was_ Asra across from him, then. Good. “You know I can’t answer that.”

“You never answer anything,” he mumbled back, muffled by the wood of the table. He knew it was petulant thing to say, but he was drunk, and he wasn’t in the mood for more of Asra’s cryptic gibberish. “Can’t you just answer a question with something straightforward for once?”

Asra lifted a brow. “Don’t I always?”

“See, you’re even doing it now!” Julian whined. “Please, Asra?  _Please_. None of your… your…” He waved a hand. “Uh, mysticism, I guess.”

“If my answers confuse you, Ilya, that’s because you’re not looking at them the right way. I’m always perfectly honest.”

“You’re an ass,” Julian told him, something he’d never dare to say to the magician while sober no matter how true it was. Asra merely shrugged. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t, Ilya.” His friend sighed. “All right, out with it. What question do you need me to answer for you? I imagine you have one.”

“Are you going to actually answer or are you going to just spout your usual nonsense?”

“It’s not nonsense,” Asra said tartly. Julian must’ve hit a nerve. The other shook his head. “I don’t know why I ever agreed to come with you tonight… you always get like this after too much wine—”

“No, no, don’t leave me!” Swaying, the doctor lifted his head and darted forward to grab at the blob of color in his vision that was Asra, latching onto what he was pretty sure was Asra’s arm. “Asra, no. You can’t leave me. _Please_.” He sniffled exaggeratedly, hoping to garner some pity. “What did I do?”

“Besides down enough wine to put a winery out of business?” Sighing again, Asra gently pried Julian’s hand off of his arm, but he didn’t let go. “You haven’t done anything, Ilya, okay? Settle down,” he said, the words so soft Julian had to strain to hear them, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Go ahead and ask your question. I promise I’ll do my best to answer.”

“Um, okay.” Julian reached for his drink, frowning when Asra slid it out of his reach even though there were but a few drops left. Suddenly exhausted and lacking the energy to argue with his friend, he said nothing about Asra taking his drink and merely dropped his head into his free hand. His head was swimming, and coherent thoughts were disappearing from his grasp as soon as they appeared. Although it wasn’t what he’d wanted to say, he whispered, “Asra… why don’t I hate him?”

 _So much for not thinking about Lucio_.

Asra squeezed his hand. “What?”

“Why don’t I hate him,” he repeated, voice cracking. The words were making his chest ache, choking him. “Asra, I…”

Feeling the burn of an onslaught of tears, he tore his hand from Asra’s hold and scrubbed at his eyes, his heart heavier than it had been in a long time. 

What he’d said was true, after all. He _didn’t_ hate Lucio. 

No, it was more than that. 

He _couldn’t_ hate Lucio.

Lucio was, by far, one of the most despicable people roaming this world: he’d ruined any number of lives with his ruthless military campaigns; was steadily draining Vesuvia’s coffers by throwing party after party with the purpose of celebrating nothing other than himself; hadn’t involved himself in the efforts to find the Plague’s cure until he himself had caught it; had selected dead-eyed, demon-like creatures as his Courtiers; hid his selfishness with generosity; and, in his personal relationships, he was rude and had a tendency to be painfully cruel. He was a liar and a manipulator, and his infamous temper sent people running from rooms at the sight of his frown. Although his jokes were often at the expense of someone else, his sense of humor was one of his best traits by sheer virtue of his other traits being comparatively _worse_. 

Yet, at the same time, Lucio loved his dogs so fiercely it was plain as day to anyone who so much as glanced at Mercedes and Melchior. His hounds were visibly well-cared for, and they trailed after their owner almost everywhere he went. He’d earned their loyalty, and he’d even earned _Brundle’s_. In fact, he was uncharacteristically sweet with _all_ of his pets, almost as if he were a different person around them—and, though he had an atrocious way of showing it, he cared about those he’d deemed his friends, too. He showered Nadia with gifts, all of which he’d carefully chosen himself; he regularly asked after Asra’s soulmate, even if he’d never met Asra’s better half and never planned to; and he even kept Julian’s drawing of Camio on his bedside table, where the doctor had managed to get a glimpse of it before Lucio had shoved it into a drawer and glared.

The Count of Vesuvia wasn’t a good man, but he wasn’t _evil_ , either. He was immature, self-centered, careless, destructive—but, even then, it was clear his behavior was attention-seeking to the core. 

Lucio was _lonely_. 

It didn’t excuse his actions, but… loneliness? Loneliness was something Julian understood.

It was Lucio’s obvious desperation to be loved that made it impossible for Julian to hate him.

“I should’ve let him die,” he finally said, tone miserable and low. The realization was a harsh one, but the reality was that, if Lucio had simply died all those years ago, Julian wouldn’t have had to deal with him and this tangled mess of feelings now. “If I’d just let him die…” He shook his head. “Why didn’t I just _let him die_?”

The magician let out a soft breath. “Oh, _Ilya_ …” he said. “I've told you before—the Plague isn’t your fault. If he dies from the Plague… it’s not because of you. Don’t let guilt affect you like this. You can’t save everyone.”

“That’s not…” Sighing, he wiped at his face with his shirt sleeve. By what seemed to be a tense expression on Asra’s face, he’d only made himself look worse. “That’s not what I…”

Asra tilted his head. “Ilya?”

 _No_ , he thought to himself, frowning. The story had been on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it back at the last second.

What had happened between Lucio and him when they’d first met was their business and their business alone. Although they’d never outright agreed not to speak of it with others, telling Asra would still feel like a betrayal of Lucio’s confidence. 

Even drunk, Julian knew he didn’t want to do that.

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s… it’s nothing. Can we just go back now?”

Asra stood and set a hand on his shoulder. “Of course, Ilya,” he replied quietly. He squeezed once in sympathy before letting his hand fall, and then went outside to hail a carriage back to the Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we don't deserve dogs
> 
> in the next chapter.......stuff is actually going to happen, i promise


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i mention this fic is extremely self-indulgent? even if i already have i just wanna put that out there again
> 
> time to crank that good good angst up to 11.
> 
> also congratulations to me for finally winning a trophy on neopets we did it boys in honor of such a big achievement i'm posting this chapter now

It became increasingly obvious that the Count of Vesuvia was dying.

Lucio had managed to outlive most of Julian’s patients, having survived with the Plague for what was now pushing three months rather than three days, but, if his worsening state was any indication, he did not have much time left in this world until he finally succumbed—and it had started to show. Whereas before it had been easy enough to pretend he was merely ill, it was now clear the Plague had been and still was steadily consuming him.

It’d been a seemingly mundane moment when Julian had first noticed, but, because it was _Lucio_ , it may as well have been the ringing of the Count’s death knell.

Julian and Asra had secluded themselves in the library and Lucio, for what he’d claimed had been a lack of anything better to do, had joined them. He’d stretched himself out along one of the couches, a blanket drawn up to his chest and his devoted hounds standing guard at his side while Brundle had made herself comfortable on his stomach. Over the top of his book, Julian had stolen glances at him every so often, concerned that Lucio hadn’t tried distracting him or Asra from their work yet. Instead, Lucio actually seemed content not to be the center of attention for once; he was oddly quiet, and he was doing nothing but staring up at the ceiling as he stroked Brundle’s fur.

Asra hadn’t been able to ignore him, either. The magician kept flicking glances between Julian and Lucio, a silent question in his eyes, but Julian had only been able to offer him a shrug.

After a few minutes, he’d had enough: Julian set his book down on his desk and made his way over to where Lucio rested, intending to encourage the other to go back to his room. He’d accidentally fallen asleep on that same couch enough times to know it was hardly the best place for a nap. He’d just been about to open his mouth when there came a knock on the door, and into the library tiptoed a servant, head bowed and twisting their hands sheepishly.

“Count Lucio?” they’d asked, voice shaky with nerves. “Count Lucio, sir, it’s… it’s about the Masquerade. There’s been—”

“Shut up,” Lucio had snapped in reply, and Julian had looked down at him, shocked. “I’m sleeping. Whatever it is, go bother the Countess with it.”

The servant had nodded. “Yes, sir.” With that, they’d scurried from the room as fast as their legs would take them, shutting the library door behind them.

Julian, meanwhile, hadn’t stopped staring at Lucio, unease crawling up his spine, feeling as if he’d just been dunked over the head with a bucket of ice water.

“Oh,” he’d whispered.

Lucio had turned a glare on him, but, terrifyingly, it’d been weaker than usual. “Oh, what?” he’d repeated. “If you’re going to just stand there, at least make yourself useful and tell me a bedtime story.”

“I…” The doctor had swallowed. “Sure,” he’d agreed, hoarse.

He’d complied, though he’d only managed to get about three minutes into recounting the time he’d been caught cheating at cards and had almost gotten killed for it in Drakr when Lucio had fallen asleep. He’d wanted to believe he’d bored Lucio to sleep—he’d hardly been able to give the tale his usual panache, shaken as he was—but he’d known that wasn’t it.

Lucio hadn’t been interested in discussing the Masquerade, and that, in and of itself, was a sure sign something was wrong. Recently, the man had been taking any and every opportunity to boast about his extravagant birthday party. He spent the moments he wasn’t with Nadia, Asra, or Julian immersed in the party’s planning alongside designated Palace staff, deciding the design for invitations and perusing fabric samples for costumes and overseeing the creation of decorations. Even when he _was_ with those he considered his friends, his favorite topic of conversation was still the Masquerade: he solicited Nadia’s opinions on the decor, ordered Asra to help him incorporate magic, and forced Julian to join him in watching Vesuvia’s best musicians audition for the honor of playing at the Palace. 

Since he’d first started the preparations for his Masquerade, he rarely surfaced from the haze of party planning, so for him to _send away_ a servant who’d discovered a problem with his celebration… 

It’d marked the beginning of the end. The Plague had finally drained Lucio to a shadow of his former self, and it wouldn’t be much longer until it killed him.

Julian knew that instant—the realization that Lucio, for all his bluster, still had a fallible mortal body and was quickly approaching his death—would haunt him forever. Whether or not a cure was found and Lucio was healed, he’d carry that memory of such a visceral feeling of _failure_ with him for the rest of his life, the way he still did the memory of having to amputate Lucio’s arm. Lucio wasn’t dead yet, no, but he was _close_ , and it was Julian’s fault for not working harder that the Count had reached that point.

The doctor threw himself into his research with a fervor he hadn’t had before. He barely left the dungeons, driven to sleepless nights by recurring nightmares of Lucio’s death, constantly hunched over the desk in his study and frantically paging through book after book or out in the dungeons proper at Valdemar’s side and swallowing back his disgust as he aided his boss’s experiments with Plague victims’ corpses. He skipped private gatherings with Asra and Nadia on the latter’s balcony and dodged Lucio’s attempts to speak to him outside of a medical capacity and, when he did leave the dungeons, it was only to hole himself up in the library and spend hours scouring the shelves for anything that seemed even remotely relevant.

The longer he spent sequestered away in the library and in the dungeons, the more frenzied his research became. Days were passing, yet Julian had nothing to show for his efforts except for darker bags under his eyes and messy hair and dirty clothes, stacks of discarded books and scrolls full of his illegible notes, and a genuine fear for Lucio’s life that had his hands trembling whenever he couldn’t suppress the more fatalistic of his thoughts. Finding a cure began to seem absolutely hopeless—no matter how many books and scrolls he read or how many dissections he observed, he was always left back at square one: with nothing.

He knew he was about to hit his breaking point, tears of exhaustion welling in his eyes with each book that contained _nothing_ , his research pushing him closer and closer to his wits’ end; but, every time he considered taking a break, he’d picture the way Lucio had looked at him as he’d said those words from what felt like a lifetime ago— _you’re mine_ —and he’d shake his head and keep going.

When Lucio had cornered him in the bath, his gaze had burned with such an intensity that it’d sent Julian’s heart racing. In the doctor’s mind, he always pictured Lucio as he’d existed in that moment: grinning, beautiful, and _alive_. Now, Lucio’s expressions showed nothing but bitterness and dull exhaustion and he’d all but stopped taking care of his appearance entirely, and the contrast between past and present was harrowing. It hurt to look at him, having to face the proof of how fast Lucio was fading—the doctor had taken to not meeting his eyes, desperate to pretend that, if only for a moment, Lucio was still the same as he remembered him.

Julian couldn’t even recall the last time Lucio had played with the dogs or visited his pets, activities the Count had clearly loved. As he’d once promised, Lucio had been trying to teach Brundle how to play fetch, and, though Julian had told him it’d be pointless, he’d insisted on continuing to try anyway, likely just enjoying the opportunity to relax outdoors with the Palace’s hounds. These days, Lucio rarely set so much as one foot outside his chambers. He hadn’t even been sending Mercedes and Melchior out to torture the servants for his amusement, and that was one of his favorite pastimes and something for which he needed to expend little energy.

Watching Lucio lose bits and pieces of himself to the Plague—seeing him wither away into someone almost unrecognizable—was more painful than Julian had ever expected it would be, and he simply couldn’t let himself rest until he saw that infamous temper flare to life in the Count’s eyes once more.

Eventually, Asra and Nadia confronted him, just as Julian had suspected they would. He had no doubt they'd come to pull him from his work, so he refused to acknowledge their presence, hoping they’d leave him to his research. Nadia had been the first to cave, drifting back up to the ground floor of the Palace once it became clear to her that Julian wouldn’t so much as greet them, although she did lay a warm hand against his back for a brief second before she’d stepped away. Almost immediately, he regretted treating her so rudely, and he knew he’d have to apologize for it next time he saw her.

Asra, however, lingered for much longer. Minutes ticked by, and still he stood there, watching his friend in eerie silence. Finally, Julian—growing uncomfortable under the weight of Asra’s stare—set down his quill and turned to look at him with a frown.

“Asra, please,” he said, pressing his fingers to his temples, annoyed. He could feel a headache building, and he was sure whatever Asra had to say would probably just make it worse. “Not now.”

“Then when?” the other insisted. “When’s the last time you left your office?”

Sighing, he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. How long had he been sitting in this chair? Two, maybe three days? Either way, it wasn’t information Asra needed.

“Go away, Asra,” he pleaded. “I can’t do this with you right now.”

“Do what? Let me help my friend?” Asra said. He crossed his arms and shook his head, brows pinching in frustration. “You’re destroying yourself.”

Julian scoffed. Of that, he was already fully aware, but what he _also_ knew was that, regardless of whether or not a cure was found, he had a chance to recover from the damage, unlike every Plague victim in Vesuvia.

“He’s not worth it, Ilya,” the magician added, voice soft, and Julian stiffened, clenching his fists. He could guess who Asra meant.

“I _know_ ,” he snapped. He slammed his hands on the desk and stood abruptly from his chair, satisfied when Asra blinked up at him, startled and more than a little wary. “I know he isn’t,” he repeated lowly, “but Vesuvia _is_.”

It was only a partial lie—saving Vesuvia was an added bonus to finding the cure, but saving Lucio was his goal first and foremost; as long as Asra didn’t know what had happened to Lucio’s arm, he wouldn’t understand why, and Julian wasn't going to tell him. 

With a sharp exhale, Asra threw his hands up in resignation. “This isn’t _you_ , Ilya,” he said, “but I’ll leave you alone for now.” He shook his head. “Will you at least agree to meet me in the library tomorrow? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

 _That_ caught Julian’s attention. “Have you found something useful?” he asked.

Asra shrugged. “In a way,” he answered, his words cryptic as per usual, and Julian was struck with the sudden urge to throw a book at him, aiming to wipe that ever present smirk from his face. 

Shocked at the violence of his own thought, the doctor slumped back into the chair at his desk and dropped his head into his hands. Unfortunately, Asra had been right—this _wasn’t_ him. He’d been in a number of bar fights before and could hold his own, albeit not very well, and he imagined that everyone who’d ever met Asra had been tempted to strangle the magician at least once or twice, Asra’s soulmate included, but Julian had never been hit with such a desire to _hurt_ someone, not to this extent.

He was officially losing his mind.

“Fine,” he muttered into his hands, knowing Asra would hear him. 

Perhaps leaving his office for a moment and actually talking to another human being would give him some peace, even if it was Asra. He wasn’t alone in the dungeons, but none of the other physicians besides Valdemar spoke to him, and he still wasn’t entirely convinced Valdemar was human. In terms of animal companions, Mercedes and Melchior had barged into his office on a few occasions, sinking their teeth into a pant leg of his each and trying to drag him upstairs to Lucio’s chambers, but they’d quickly returned to their master once they’d realized Julian wouldn’t budge, so he hadn’t been able to enjoy their company, either; and, to make his situation worse, even _Brundle_ hadn’t been down to the dungeons to visit him in awhile, preferring to take advantage of whatever time with Lucio she had left.

He didn’t need to look up to see Asra’s smug smile—he could very well hear it.

“Thank you,” the magician said. He rapped his knuckles against the doorframe in farewell before he left Julian’s office and headed back to the lift.

That night, Julian actually attempted to get some sleep, though he woke in what he assumed to be the early hours of the morning, gasping and clutching at his chest, attempting to slow the pounding of his heart and to banish the last traces yet another nightmare of Lucio’s death and Vesuvia burning in his wake. He figured he’d do Asra the favor of washing up and changing before he went up to the library meet him; Asra wouldn’t complain if Julian smelled like the dungeons, but he’d almost definitely wrinkle his nose and frown in disapproval, which was almost worse.

When Julian left his office, shutting the door tightly behind him, and made for the elevator, he was stopped by Valdemar, who’d tugged down their mask at the sight of him emerging from his study. 

His boss tilted their head curiously. “Going somewhere, Doctor 069?” they asked.

“Ah…” Julian hesitated. “To the library.”

“I see,” they said. Deeming the conversation not worth their full focus, they replaced their mask and turned back to the corpse strapped to the table in front of them. “Take care not to get too distracted. I’m planning to dispose of those bodies later.” Scalpel in hand, they idly waved towards a stack of corpses, unaffected. “You ought to join me.”

He frowned. “Me?” If there was one thing he didn’t want to do, it was that.

“It’s delightful to watch you squirm, Doctor 069. You always turn the most interesting shade of green.”

 _Right_ , he sighed to himself. _That’s just great, thank you so much._

He didn’t bother to respond aloud; Valdemar had already ceased to pay attention.

The elevator squeaked and rattled in protest as it brought Julian to the upper level of the Palace, announcing his arrival to the servants who were busy sweeping up the dust and clearing away the cobwebs around the gate leading to the dungeons, cloths tied over their mouths. They looked at him sadly, and Julian ducked his head to avoid their gazes. The other servants in the hallways that led to the library had similar expressions on their faces, pitying and somber.

Julian was relieved to escape the servants’ heavy stares by slipping through the intricate door to the library, which Asra must’ve had the courtesy to ask Nadia to leave unlocked. In the library, he found Asra waiting for him, book in hand and tea and a tray of sandwiches on the table in front of him.

“Ilya!” the magician greeted, smiling and gesturing for Julian to join him. He set his book aside to picked up a teacup and saucer and offered it to his friend. “Here, sit and have something to drink.”

Julian sat beside him and took the teacup with a disappointed frown, recognizing the flavor of the tea from its scent: the tea was one of Asra’s favorites, and, coincidentally, one of Julian’s least favorites.

“You seriously couldn’t have gotten coffee?” the doctor asked. He’d told Asra before that his non-alcoholic drink of choice was coffee, hadn’t he?

As dismayed as he was with the tea, he did have to stifle a laugh at Asra’s irked expression. 

“Sorry, Ilya,” the other said, giving what was an obviously forced smile. He shook his head, and there was an air about him that swiftly put Julian on edge. “I simply…” He laughed softly, bashful. “I haven’t done this in quite a long time.”

 _What?_ “I mean, I know we haven’t talked in awhile…” Julian trailed off. 

He ignored the every sense in his body screaming at him to run. Asra wouldn’t hurt him, would he? Did Asra _truly_ want Lucio to suffer so badly that he was willing to kill the Count’s physicians, one of whom was a friend? No… no, that was merely Julian’s anxiety twisting everything into the worst case scenario, same as it always did, but Asra was still up to _something_.

“That’s not it,” the magician whispered.

Proving Julian’s hunch, Asra set a hand on his chest and leaned in, a peculiar gleam in his eyes that had Julian instinctively sliding away from him and onto the next couch cushion. Rather than give him his space, Asra stubbornly kept his hand where it was and even scooted next to him, moving closer and closer until their thighs were touching.

“Uh…” With an awkward, uncomfortable laugh, Julian gripped Asra around the wrist and lifted the hand off of his chest. “Right…” he drawled, setting Asra’s hand down in the other’s lap. He gave Asra’s hand one gentle pat before he pulled away, coughing and fixing a friendly smile onto his face. “Okay. Well, anyway—”

“ _Ilya_.” Asra cut the doctor off with a short, irritated exhale. Unable to keep his coy facade in place, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again. After a moment, he huffed, “Will you please just trust me?”

Unnerved by the question, Julian went to stand; if yesterday it was Julian who hadn’t been himself, then today it was Asra’s turn. 

“I-I don’t know, I should go,” he stammered, and then had the wind knocked out of him when the magician pushed him back against the cushions and straddled him. His eyes widened in horror, and he twisted away from the other as best he could, but Asra simply _would not_ let him go. “Whoa, hey!” he said, bewildered. He pushed against Asra’s chest, but, again, the magician didn’t move an inch. “ _Whaaat_ are you doing…?”

Asra pursed his lips. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“What? Um, no,” Julian replied. “No, it isn’t.”

While he supposed it didn’t take much thought to figure out where Asra was going with this, he didn’t know _why_ the other was flirting with him in the first place. Asra had never displayed any interest in him before, at least none that he’d noticed. When they’d first met, he’d tried his luck at flirting with the magician himself, hinting that he’d have no problem with Asra introducing him to his soulmate in a more intimate setting, but Asra had turned him down in no uncertain terms.

 _Confused_ didn’t begin to cover how he felt—unless… Asra had changed his mind?

“Y-You know you said _no_ , right?” Julian felt the need to remind him, just in case. “Do you remember that? Months ago? When I, uh, when I propositioned you and technically also your partner, I guess? You said no.”

Asra nodded. “I know.” He shot a worried glance in the direction of the door, and Julian looked over, too. Was that the sound of footsteps? _Oh, no_. The only other person who used the library was Nadia, and canoodling with Asra on the couch in her library was not a position in which Julian wanted the Countess to find him. Blanching, Julian turned back to Asra, about to beg him to move, but Asra spoke before he could. “May I kiss you?”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Julian said. _Not good, not good, not good_ , his mind shouted at him, alarmed. The footsteps were getting louder. “Asra, please, can’t we do this some other time?”

Asra raised a brow. “Yes or no, Ilya.”

“I…” Julian was about to die of embarrassment, anyway, so why not accept Asra’s offer, he thought. “I-I mean, I _guess_ —?”

Before Asra could so much as lean in, a familiar golden hand shot out and gripped Asra’s collar, and Julian looked up to see the door to the library thrown open hard enough to have cracked the wall. 

Above them stood none other than the Count of Vesuvia, and his expression was _murderous_.

“What,” Lucio growled, a cold fury in his voice that had even Asra’s hands starting to shake with fear, “are you _doing_.”

Julian swallowed. He and Asra exchanged panicked glances, both of them unsure of what to say, and Lucio impatiently shook Asra by the collar.

“ _Well_?” he asked. Roughly, he dragged Asra off of Julian’s lap, yanking with enough force to make the back of Asra’s shirt audibly tear, and then he switched to grabbing a handful of fabric in the front and used it to draw him closer until Lucio was snarling in his face. “Go on, Asra. _Tell me_.”

“L-Lucio…” Julian said.

Interrupting proved itself to have been a bad idea almost immediately: after Julian spoke, Lucio let go of Asra’s shirt only to end up shoving the magician backwards, sending him sprawling onto the floor. On his way down, Asra bumped against and knocked over the table, and the teacups and tray of food crashed around him, the overturned tea soaking his white hair and highlighting it with streaks of light brown.

“Is _this_ what you’ve been doing?!” Lucio demanded. He set a foot on Asra’s chest, keeping the other pinned to the ground. “ _Each other_?!”

“No, no, no, not at all!” Julian rushed to clarify. Spurred into action by the sight of Asra injured and on the floor before him, he leapt to his feet. “Lucio, _please_ , I _swear_ —”

His sentence broke off with a pathetic yelp when Lucio smacked away the hand Julian had been about rest on his arm.

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” Lucio hissed at him. 

Julian nodded, cradling his hand against his chest, and Lucio turned back to Asra, glaring at the magician with pure hatred. Eventually, he took his foot off of Asra’s chest, and he bent over to haul him upright and push him in the direction of the open door. 

“Get the hell out,” Lucio ordered. When Asra hesitated, looking at Julian in concern, he gave the magician another push. “ _Now_.”

With one last apologetic glance in his friend’s direction, Asra obeyed Lucio’s command, and the door swung shut after him.

 _Thanks, Asra,_ Julian snorted, and then he raised his hands in surrender as Lucio heard his scoff and whirled around to face him.

But, to his surprise, Lucio didn’t reach for his throat—instead, Lucio remained where he was, regarding him in silence for a few moments before he asked, “ _Why_?”

“Why…?” Julian repeated, brows furrowing.

At that, whatever control Lucio must’ve had over his temper completely shattered.

“Why _Asra_?!” he shouted, his voice echoing throughout the room. He snatched the lapels of Julian’s jacket in his hands and wrenched him forward, Julian stumbling over the broken remains of brunch at their feet. “What does _Asra_ have that _I_ don’t?!”

Julian’s eyes widened. “W-Wait—” he said weakly.

_What does Asra have that I don’t?_

Lucio was obviously upset over something; his words gave Julian a very clear clue as to the answer, but there was no way his guess was right.

The other’s yelling continued over his feeble protest, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. 

“After _everything_ I’ve done for you, you pick _Asra_?” Lucio went on. “Over _me_?!”

Julian winced. That confirmed it, he supposed: Lucio was jealous.

“If I can’t have you, nobody can.” Voice dropping to a harsh whisper, Lucio said, “You’re. _Mine_.”

As opposed to when he’d last said those words, this time the Count did not seem content to leave it at that—stretching onto his toes and tilting his head, he cupped Julian’s cheek with his flesh hand and drew him closer.

“If you want me to stop,” he said, “tell me now.”

Against his better judgment, Julian kept quiet, and Lucio kissed him.

Lucio’s lips were warm beneath his, the fingers of his free hand tangled themselves in Julian’s hair, and Julian laid his palm above the man’s heart and savored its strong beat—this was the most _alive_ Julian had seen him in some time, and he surged forward, chasing the feeling of Lucio’s pulse quickening under his touch.

He pulled back briefly, admiring the flush that was adding much needed color to the other’s cheeks, a healthy pink that enlivened the sickly pallor of his skin. Lucio still had the appearance of a man near death, his face gaunt, his hands unsteady, his posture bone-weary, and overall looking haggard at best; but, with his eyes bright and his lips red from kissing, he was gorgeous. Strands of blond hair hung lifelessly in his face, and Julian carefully brushed them back behind his ear, surprised when the action caused Lucio’s blush to darken. Had he _embarrassed_ Lucio? Holding back a smile at the thought, Julian leaned in again, sighing happily as Lucio met him halfway.

Before long, Lucio was biting Julian’s bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth, and, when Julian let out a small gasp, he took the opportunity to lick his way into the other’s mouth. The doctor shuddered, reflexively tightening his grasp on Lucio’s hips, groaning as Lucio nipped his bottom lip again in remonstrance, this time almost hard enough to draw blood. That pulled from Julian’s throat a loud, mortifying whine, and Lucio broke off the kiss with a laugh.

“Figured you were a freak,” he said, grinning.

Flustered, Julian decided to ignore the comment and simply kissed him in response, delighted to find it’d worked to redirect Lucio’s focus—he’d discovered the perfect method for getting Lucio to stop talking. 

Lucio’s fingers had soon moved from his tugging on his hair to undoing the buttons on his coat, pushing it insistently down his shoulders once finished, and Julian shrugged it off and dropped it onto the floor, glad that he’d actually taken the time to wash and change before meeting Asra in the library.

 _Bastard_ , Julian thought fondly, realizing that inciting Lucio’s jealousy had been Asra’s intention all along. For as much as Asra teased Julian for the latter’s love of dramatics, Asra too was one for a bit of showmanship every so often, so of _course_ he couldn’t have just told Julian he’d been trying to make Lucio jealous.

Distracted as he was, Julian didn’t feel Lucio tugging off his gloves until it was too late.

“Let me see it,” Lucio panted between kisses, his hands alighting on Julian’s right glove and hurriedly peeling the leather from his skin. “I want to see it.”

Julian froze. “Wait—” he gasped out, but by then his glove was already on the floor and Lucio was staring at his wrist, brows furrowed.

The doctor tried to hide his wrist against his chest and away from Lucio’s piercing gaze, but Lucio’s grip held fast, keeping the other’s wrist in place.

“That’s…” the Count trailed off. He brushed his thumb over the thick letters, frowning. “I thought marks were supposed to change?” he eventually mused.

Julian had been about to ask Lucio to let go, but something about what the other had said was odd and had him pausing. “Did you think mine would change because we kissed?” he asked.

Lucio shot him a glare. “No, idiot, not because we kissed,” he huffed. He turned Julian’s wrist every which way, scrutinizing it from every available angle. “It’s just… the last time I heard that name was—” He cut himself off with a scowl. “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“Wait, wait!” Julian nodded down at his wrist. “So you’ve heard this name before? Does that mean you know a Montag?”

Lucio looked up at him in disbelief. “Jules,” he said slowly, “I _am_ Montag.”

In retrospect, it was obvious. The looks, the little comments, Nadia and Asra’s meddling, Lucio’s right sleeve always unrolled to the wrist… they’d all been for a reason.

Julian had willfully ignored every sign that Lucio was his soulmate—believing desperately that what was in his own heart was _wrong_ , that he’d never felt any draw towards him, that being with him wasn’t truly as comfortable as it’d always seemed—because he’d known what Lucio being his soulmate would mean.

Hands trembling, Julian reached for Lucio’s cuff; when his fingers were too shaky to undo the fastenings and he kept fumbling with slipping the small buttons through their holes, Lucio wordlessly started to help, using the strength of his mechanical hand simply to tear the buttons free, and Julian was soon able to push Lucio’s sleeve up and see the name that laid beneath.

 _Julian Devorak_.

He sucked in a sharp breath, the confirmation of his worst fear making him sick.

It wasn’t that their marks meant Lucio was his soulmate—it was that they meant Lucio had most likely lied to him.

Lucio had probably been lying to him _for years_ , deceiving him from the very first moment they’d spoken, and Julian felt like a fool.

He ran his thumb along the poorly written letters on the wrist in his grasp, the sting of tears muddying his eyesight, the mark on Lucio’s on wrist turning into a watery blur.

He jumped as Lucio set a hand on his cheek and lifted his head, the Count’s golden prosthetic cool against his face. “Jules?” the other asked, and, if Julian didn’t know any better, he’d say Lucio sounded concerned.

Trying to pull himself back together quickly, he shook his head. “Don’t,” he whispered, brushing Lucio’s hand aside. He coughed to clear the lump that’d formed in his throat. “Just… just don’t.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lucio frowned, but he did respectfully draw his hand back and let it hang at his side. “Jules, come on. What’s wrong?”

“When did you start going by Lucio?”

Julian said it as calmly as he could, trying to keep his voice from wavering. It was the last question in the world to which he wanted the answer, but, because he was apparently intent on torturing himself, he had to ask it. 

He _needed_ Lucio’s response.

“Please,” he added quietly.

Lucio stilled, and that was answer enough.

“Does it matter?” the Count asked belligerently, clearly stalling.

With a long, pained exhale, Julian rubbed his eyes, digging his knuckles into his sockets until spots appeared behind his eyelids. He was more tired than he’d been in a long time—maybe in his entire life. “You know it does,” he murmured. 

Lucio pursed his lips and glanced away, a guilty blush staining his cheeks. “L-Look, it wasn’t my fault, okay?” he finally relented, his tone and stance defensive. “How was I supposed to know your mark wouldn’t eventually change?” He threw up his hands, frustration plain on his face. “You _cut off_ my _arm_!”

Numb, Julian nodded—so he’d been right, then. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted so badly to have ended up wrong.

The reason Lucio had changed his name to _Lucio_ … had been to spite him; and, in all the years between their first meeting and now, Lucio had never thought to say a word. 

Julian vividly recalled having introduced himself to Lucio first, as well as the awkward pause that’d followed before his patient, the then-mercenary Lucio, had responded. Apparently, that pause had been Lucio—no, _Montag_ —scrambling to find any name that wasn’t his own, and what he’d come up with had been _Lucio_.

In mere seconds, Lucio’s bitterness and hatred towards him had begun to run so deep that he’d lied about his name to prevent Julian from realizing they were soulmates, all to punish him for amputating his arm—and it’d worked.

Julian didn’t know why he was surprised. After all, this was _Lucio_.

“Lucio, I…” Sighing, Julian bent to retrieve his coat and glove from where they’d fallen onto the ground. When he straightened, he saw Lucio staring him with wide, incredulous eyes, and he couldn’t bear to look at him. Instead, he focused on sliding his glove over his hand and doing up the buttons on his coat, head ducked and avoiding Lucio’s gaze. “I’m sorry, but I need some time to think.”

“Wait, so you’re running away again?” Lucio demanded. Julian knew the other was likely just using anger to cover his hurt, but the comment stung nonetheless. “Just like that?”

Julian nodded, and then he suddenly found himself choking when Lucio latched onto his coat and jerked him forward, bringing them nose to nose.

“Do you really not remember what I told you?!” Lucio growled furiously. Even though his tone promised violence, he was shaking, and Julian could feel the tremors of his hands where they were curled into the fabric of his coat. “You are _not_ allowed to run from me!”

In addition to outrage, there was a subtle undercurrent of genuine _fear_ in Lucio’s voice that had Julian’s heart aching. “This isn’t a _no_ , all right? I’m not… rejecting you,” he promised. His touch light, he laid his hands over Lucio’s, gently prying the other’s grip off of his front. Once he successfully pulled Lucio’s hands free, Julian twined their fingers together, and he squeezed tightly in reassurance. “I’ll be back. I just—like I said, I need to think, and I can’t… I can’t do it here.”

Despite everything, he knew he still cared for Lucio, and he was sure he always would—that was the problem with soulmates, he supposed—but both he and Lucio deserved for him to give their situation some serious thought. If Lucio were around, he knew he wouldn’t be able to think in peace. 

He had to get away.

Trying to distract himself from the fact that what he needed was time to think and that Lucio had almost no time left, Julian leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of Lucio’s mouth, and then he escaped the Palace altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY we have reached the rising action........over 30,000 words later.....kms
> 
> me: "this fic is gonna be like 10k" my brain: "sike"
> 
> again, massive thank you to everyone who's been reading this ( ˘ ³˘)♥ ily


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here, have some very brief filler while i attempt to write a 10 to 15 pg paper about pyramid schemes 🙃🔫

“I told you it was a bad idea.”

Nadia sat on the edge of her bed, nail file in hand, as she waited for Asra to change out of the robe he’d been lent to wear in her bath. She heard a light scoff come from behind the changing screen, and then suddenly Asra was poking his head around the side, his freshly washed curls still wet and sticking to his face.

“Thank you for that, Nadi,” Asra said, rolling his eyes, though the teasing twist of his lips belied his annoyance. “I know, I know, I should’ve listened to you.”

“You should have, yes,” Nadia answered primly.

With a laugh, Asra went back behind the screen again. He emerged a minute or two later, flushed and fussing with his belt, and she set down her nail file and stood to meet him, gently pushing his hands away. After she undid the mess Asra had made of it, getting the belt situated took her only a few loops of the fabric around his waist and a sharp tug. She straightened his collar and brushed her hands over his front, smoothing out any wrinkles, before she stepped back to scrutinize her work.

Although she’d been worried for Asra’s safety when she’d heard that he’d been attacked by Lucio in the library, she was less worried now that he was healed and whole before her. Her concern was abating in favor of a strange gratefulness that Lucio had ruined the magician’s shirt; at least Nadia had finally been able to force Asra to change out of his usual style—if it could even generously be called _style_ —and into something fashionable again, although she had no doubt it’d inevitably go missing and he’d somehow return to the Palace in an exact replica of his everyday wear tomorrow.

Asra’s beauty was of the ethereal sort, but, to the disappointment of many, he always insisted on obscuring it with his baggy clothes and messy hair. Clucking her tongue, Nadia reached out and sifted her hands through his locks, pushing them back behind his ears and off of his forehead. Irritatingly enough, a few of his curls immediately sprang back into place, but what caught her attention and made her frown was the bruise blooming along the line of his brow. Concerned, she lightly ran her thumb over the dark spot—presumably a result of his tussle with Lucio—and then she startled and jerked her hand back when the bruise quickly disappeared under her touch.

Asra smiled up at her, his expression far too amused for comfort, the slight glow in his eyes fading. “I must’ve missed one,” he said. “Thank you, Nadi.”

_Magicians_ , she sighed to herself. It was a good thing that, out of those with whom she was close, _Asra_ was the trained magician—Asra was reckless on occasions, but it was never needlessly so, at least in his own mind; while _Julian_ , on the other hand, seemed committed to complicating his already poor luck by actively seeking out trouble for what was likely no reason whatsoever. She could only imagine the messes he’d both find and cause if he knew he could simply heal himself and escape unscathed.

“You are lucky to be alive, my friend,” she said, sighing aloud this time. “It’s not often that someone can provoke Lucio like that and live.” The Count's strength had been waning dangerously quickly as of late, but Nadia had never seen anything motivate her husband the way personal vendetta did. She wasn't surprised that rage over a perceived affront had allowed Lucio to find the deeply buried reserve of energy that he'd needed in order to charge the offender.

“It was fine—Ilya distracted him, and I can heal myself. Just… something had to give, Nadi,” Asra told her. “It clearly wasn’t going to be either one of them.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, a sense of foreboding welling up inside her. “I _sincerely_ hope this does not end badly.” Deciding to ignore the apprehension she was feeling and leave the topic there, she adjusted Asra’s collar again. “You look very nice, Magician,” she declared. “Now I just need you to convince our dear friend Doctor Devorak to let me put him in something other than black.”

At that, Asra laughed. “I’m afraid Ilya might be a bit of a lost cause.”

“Of course.” She shook her head. “As I’d feared.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls know that i treasure absolutely every! single! kudos and comment ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡ the last fic i posted online for others to read was YEARS ago on ff.net (oof im rly dating myself with that statement but it be like that sometimes) so it's weird getting back into the game, but reading your guys' kind words has made it all worth it ☆ i know i sound like a broken record at this point but truly, ily all


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg. 40 kudos?? yall....im cryin in the club... tysm
> 
> ive been really chugging that self-indulgence juice lately btw

Every time Julian returned to his home in the South End, he learned of at least ten new people he’d known who had died of the Plague while he was gone. At this point, he’d all but abandoned his clinic, preferring to conduct research at the Palace than to be constantly bombarded with tragic news and to watch familiar faces die under his care. It was a small comfort knowing that, at his clinic, he couldn’t give those patients with the Plague anything substantial: he could offer pain management, a shoulder to cry on, maybe some assistance with drafting and executing wills, and nothing more. Though it benefited him in that he didn’t have to witness the South End’s steady decline, staying at the Palace and giving the search for a cure his full focus would do Vesuvia more good in the long run, too.

He sighed as he stepped into his home and right onto a floor covered in dust to the point that his boot left a clear imprint. When _was_ the last time he’d so much as walked through the door? It’d probably been when he’d gathered together everything of Brundle’s. In his rooms remained only the bare essentials, the rest of his things having gone to the Palace with him, including almost all of his books, and, when he opened the pantry, he found a loaf of stale, moldy bread, cobwebs, and a spider who looked mildly displeased to have been disturbed. With an apologetic smile, he resealed the pantry door.

The thought of eventually having to move back here was a depressing one. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy living in the South End—with his home only so far from both his clinic and his favorite tavern, it was perfect—but he’d grown fond of the Palace and its inhabitants. Although he was on good terms with each one of his neighbors, they were acquaintances at most, and he’d made _friends_ at the Palace. Friends— _good_ friends—were a rarity for him; he didn’t think of himself as particularly closed off as a person, but there were certain things he felt comfortable telling only those he considered close, and he’d never been prone to staying in one location long enough to become too close with others in the first place. 

Outside of family and… whatever _Lucio_ was to him, Nadia and Asra were probably the closest he’d ever allowed anyone to get. He had never felt so comfortable around others the way he did around them, and it was a blessing that, in the Palace, he could easily see them almost whenever he so wished. He’d spent hours upon hours with them, had shared with them secrets and stories he’d never told anyone before—he’d even _shown them his mark_.

And they’d ended up lying to him, too.

Had they known Lucio was his soulmate since that very night? The meaning behind Asra’s _you know, then_ was obvious now, and, if anyone were to have told him what Lucio’s name used to be, it would’ve been the man’s own wife. Had Nadia recognized the name _Montag_ as soon as she’d seen it? He remembered Asra had left Nadia’s room after he had that night—had Asra and Nadia discussed him and Lucio once he’d gone, while he’d returned to toiling away in the dungeons? He didn’t want to believe they’d have kept such a significant thing like Lucio’s name from him, but all evidence pointed to the possibility that they _had_.

Perhaps leaving the Palace and moving back to the Sound End wasn’t such a bad idea after all—or he could even up and leave Vesuvia altogether.

_Fiddlesticks._

No, he couldn’t do that. _Why_ had he promised Lucio he wouldn’t run?! Running wouldn’t solve his problems but, if he ran far enough, he would at least be able to ignore them.

But… it wouldn’t be fair to Lucio, would it? His _soulmate_ deserved better. No matter how unfair Lucio had been to _him_ in the past, Julian still didn’t have the desire to hurt him any more than he already had.

He’d come home to _think_ , and that was exactly what he intended to do: he grabbed one of the few books he’d elected not to bring to the Palace with him, pulling it from his depressingly empty shelves and blowing the dust off its cover, and then he dropped down into his high back armchair, coughing when a cloud of dust rose up around him from the impact. He really _hadn’t_ been back home in forever, it seemed. This chair had once been his favorite spot—he’d kept his studies to his desk, having wanted separate spaces for work and for leisure, so his chair was where he’d usually relaxed, either snuggling with Brundle or curled up with a trashy guilty pleasure novel. It had been where he’d come to clear his mind and to escape from reality. 

That he’d let his chair fall into such a state showed him just how content he’d become in the Palace.

With _Lucio_.

Even when he and Lucio had first met, they’d gotten along well enough during the moments in which Lucio had forgotten Julian was the one who’d amputated his arm. While Lucio had been in recovery, Julian had the distinction of being the only field medic able to withstand Lucio’s attitude and maintain a kind bedside manner without snapping; by the end of every day, he’d more often than not ended up as the medic saddled with Lucio’s care, forced into the position after his colleagues had gotten their fill of the bitter mercenary and had given Lucio no choice but either to let Julian treat him or to die from an infection. He’d tried his best to keep Lucio company when he could, and some nights they’d stayed up late together, talking and drinking and, on one disastrous occasion where Lucio hadn’t remembered rummy typically required two hands, attempting to play cards.

Julian fondly recalled their swapping stories and jokes—distracting Lucio from the sting of getting his bandages changed with some of his bawdier tales; asking after Lucio’s exploits on the battlefield over a bottle of liquor; and smiling to himself during the rare moments in which he’d actually managed to get Lucio to stop frowning and maybe even to laugh were all memories he held dear even today.

Even though Lucio had spent just as much time yelling at him over what’d happened to his arm as he had narrating impressive battle stories, Julian had still been disappointed when they’d gone their separate ways.

His first time meeting Lucio had stuck with him for another reason, though—it’d been his first time amputating a limb by himself, without Nazali or another mentor approving of his decision and observing his work over his shoulder. He knew Lucio would’ve died if he hadn’t acted fast—he _knew_ that—but, in all the years since then, Julian had never forgiven himself for it. Cutting off Lucio’s arm haunted him, even featuring in his nightmares every now and then.

Lucio hadn’t forgiven him for it, either. Julian had thought that the Count of Vesuvia inviting him to the Palace to search for the Plague cure had been an effort on Lucio’s part to extend an olive branch, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. Despite the fact that he had a new arm courtesy of magic, Lucio still carried his grudge, and he’d made that _very_ clear.

At least their mutual inability to get over what had happened between them made more sense, now. Knowing Lucio was his soulmate made it easier to deal with the guilt. It was no wonder he’d never been able to forgive himself—it may have been medical necessity, but he’d still hurt his soulmate. He couldn’t imagine just how betrayed Lucio had felt back then, meeting his soulmate only to find out he was the one who’d taken one of his limbs and had altered his life forever. 

Julian had saved Lucio’s life, yes, but he supposed he understood why Lucio had decided to hurt him in return. Even within the first five minutes of speaking to him, he’d realized Lucio was neither the calmest nor the most rational person out there.

Yet he still found himself desperate for Lucio’s forgiveness. He wasn’t sure he could ever accept Lucio if Lucio couldn’t accept _him_ , and that included forgiving Julian for saving his life with the only way that’d worked. Otherwise, there’d always be a wedge between them.

That begged the question—did he even _want_ to accept Lucio? 

He definitely didn’t love Lucio—most days, he didn’t even _like_ Lucio—but they were soulmates, and he did care for him. It’d be foolish of him to reject the one person for whom fate had created him. All he had ever wanted was to know that he was meant for someone; while Lucio wasn’t the soulmate he’d imagined, Lucio was apparently the one he’d gotten, and Julian was grateful for him nonetheless. 

He was _Lucio’s_ , and that had to mean something, didn’t it?

Julian groaned and sagged forward, putting his face in his hands and resting his elbows on his knees. His book fell to the floor, unopened, the sound of it loud and echoing in the suffocating silence.

Lucio wanted _him_ —that much was clear. When Asra had tried his hand at seducing him, Lucio had flown into a jealous rage, and that alone was proof enough. 

Beyond that, though, the Count had been flirting with him since he’d arrived at the Palace, and it had only escalated thereafter. Julian could identify certain moments as what he now realized were Lucio’s attempts to be nice: even if they’d never been entirely selfless and had usually fallen flat, and even if Lucio had just as often been cruel, he suspected it was more than the Count had ever willingly done for anyone. 

Recently, his soulmate had been _trying_ , doing the best he could under the circumstances. Although his best was in fact most people’s worst, Julian recognized it for what it was.

Lucio wasn’t truly _bad_ at heart: he was a number of not-quite-good things—spiteful, unsympathetic, thick-headed, egocentric, volatile—but he wasn’t evil. 

It was a thought Julian knew he’d had before, but, overall, Lucio just seemed… horribly, horribly _lonely_.

They both were.

But, with Lucio only so many days from death, was there even a _point_ in trying to fix things between them anymore? What good would letting himself get fully invested in Lucio achieve, when the man would just die anyway? It’d break his heart, reconciling with his soulmate only to lose him a week or so later. Even on his good days, Julian already felt as if he was but one step away from losing himself in his low spirits—he didn’t know if he would be able to survive his soulmate dying and leaving him behind. He’d had patients before who’d inexplicably passed away following the death of their soulmate; his colleagues had poked fun at him for suggesting it’d been out of heartache, but they hadn’t been able to put forward any other cause.

What he and Lucio needed for even a _chance_ to find their happiness was the cure for the Plague. 

Without the Plague hanging over their heads, they’d be able to discuss their past, present, and possible future without feeling pressured. Curing the Plague was the only way of which Julian could think to make things work. He’d driven himself halfway to madness searching for it, but, for his and Lucio’s sake, he was willing to do so again.

It was already far past sundown by the time he’d come to that conclusion, the hours having slipped away without his notice as he’d sat in complete silence and had done nothing but think. Despite the lateness of the hour, he left his home and headed for Asra’s shop.

At this point, Julian had exhausted the Palace’s resources, but he’d hardly touched Asra’s books. It was likely that Asra had any number of mystical tomes and scrolls hidden away in his shop—though Julian expected them to be full of nothing more than Asra’s usual nonsense, there was still a possibility that even _one_ of them could be helpful.

While Asra didn’t _owe_ him their use, no, Julian still felt it would be justified to slip into Asra’s shop and borrow some of his things without asking. Not only had Asra kept Lucio’s name from him, he’d also tried to dissuade Julian from keeping up with his research.

 _He’s not worth it_ , Asra had told him.

Jaw clenching in anger, Julian slid his key into the lock of the shop’s back door with more force than necessary.

How _dare_ Asra say such a thing to him? If _Asra’s_ soulmate were the one dying of the Plague, the magician would stop at nothing to save them. Just because it was _Lucio_ who was suffering—

“Hello?”

Julian tripped, startled at the sound of a voice calling out to him. The lantern in front of the shop hadn’t been lit, so he’d expected to find the interior empty; instead, someone _was_ there, and they were reaching out to steady him as he almost accidentally backed up into one of the wooden displays.

“Careful, careful!” they said, settling their hands on his arms. They drew back only once he’d righted himself, and then they blinked and looked up at him with a smile. “Oh, Doctor Devorak! What a surprise.” They shot a glance over his shoulder, smile falling just the slightest bit. “Wait, how exactly did you get in?”

Unable to form an intelligent answer, Julian merely held up the key Asra had given him—he was too busy staring at the person standing in front of him to formulate a coherent sentence.

“Y-You’re…” he stammered awkwardly. Was this beautiful vision Asra’s soulmate?

“Do you remember me?” they asked, brightening.

As he calmed down, he realized that they actually did look oddly familiar, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen them before. “Ah…” He didn’t want to say _no_ outright and disappoint them, nor did he want to lie.

“I used to volunteer at your clinic,” they reminded him. He frowned, an apology on his lips, but they laughed and waved it away. “We spoke only two or three times, don’t worry! I’m not offended. I didn’t get to work with you for long—when Asra got summoned to the Palace to search for the Plague cure, I had to return to our shop.”

 **_Our_ ** _shop?_ Julian nodded slowly. “So… you _are_ Asra’s soulmate?”

With a smile, the shopkeeper tugged down the collar of their shirt, pulling it just low enough to expose where the name _Asra Alnazar_ rested over their heart. “I am indeed,” they confirmed, and then they straightened their top again. Julian resisted the urge to roll his eyes—of _course_ Asra’s soulmate was this kind, gorgeous sweetheart. How was Asra always so damnably so lucky? “I’m sorry, Doctor, but were you looking for my soulmate? I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.” They shook their head and added, warm affection in their tone, “He tends to lose track of time, so he might not be back for quite a bit.”

“Oh, uh,” he hesitated, “right, but—no. I wasn’t looking for Asra.”

They tilted their head in confusion. “Were you looking for me?”

“Well…” He opened his mouth to answer, but their gaze was just too earnest and helpful for him to be able to lie to their face. Sighing, he closed his mouth and shook his head guiltily. “I… no. Not, uh… not really.”

After a moment of tense silence, the shopkeeper finally let out a soft hum of understanding.

“I-I swear I was going to bring everything back eventually!” Julian hurried to say, holding up his hands in deference. “I just—I just need—” 

Breath hitching, he ducked his head and took a deep breath, settling a hand over his eyes. The events of the day—well, or maybe _yesterday_ , considering the time of night it was currently—had finally caught up to him. His mind must’ve deemed Asra’s soulmate trustworthy; it was only _now_ that the sheer exhaustion was starting to hit him full force and making him lose his composure, something he hated doing while surrounded by those he didn’t know well. He hadn’t broken down in front of a stranger like this in a long time, but he supposed Asra’s soulmate’s comforting aura and easy demeanor were enough to encourage him to break his streak.

How embarrassing.

“Whatever it is, Doctor, I’m sure I can help you,” the shopkeeper said, soothing. They placed their hands on his hunched shoulders and squeezed in sympathy before letting go, the action reminiscent of Asra’s previous attempts to console him. “Why don’t you come upstairs for some tea?”

“… Isn’t it a little late for tea?”

They chuckled. “Probably,” they said. “I can also make coffee, if you’d prefer that.”

Asra’s soulmate was officially a godsend. “Yes,” he answered, quickly enough that the other gave him another small laugh. “Please… if it’s not a bother.”

“It’s not a bother at all, Doctor,” they told him. “And neither are you.” 

Julian flushed, abashed, and they graced him with a soft smile before turning and gesturing for the doctor to follow, leading him up the stairs. He’d never been to the second floor of the magicians’ shop before, but he wasn’t surprised to find it just as homey and inviting as the storefront itself. All it took Asra’s soulmate to light a few of the candles placed around the room was a simple flick of their fingers—having seen the concentration Asra needed for any fire magic, his soulmate’s affinity for it was impressive, and Julian found it both terribly cute and terribly cliché that Asra and his soulmate had opposite and complementary strengths.

“Go ahead and take a seat wherever you like,” said Asra’s soulmate from over by the stove, waving towards the table without looking. “I just need a moment to wake the stove salamander, and…” There soon came the sound of crackling wood, and the magician stepped back with a satisfied grin. “Perfect! Give me a few minutes and I’ll have your coffee, Doctor.”

 _Stove salamander?_ It was probably better not to ask. “Er… thank you,” he replied. He went to sit at the table but hesitated when he saw a mound of covers and blankets on the bed begin wriggling for a brief second before they resettled. “Uh…?”

“Is everything all right?” the shopkeeper asked. They threw a quick glance over their shoulder, checking to see what had caught their guest’s attention, and then smiled and shook their head and returned to brewing the pot of coffee. “Oh, don’t mind Muriel. Sometimes he moves around in his sleep—nightmares, I think. We didn’t disturb him. He’ll be fine so long as we keep quiet.”

“ _Muriel_?” Julian repeated, stunned. Asra’s soulmate currently had _someone else_ in their bed? Did _Asra_ know? Then again, why should he care that Asra’s soulmate had someone else in their bed while Asra was gone? Asra hadn’t been a good friend to him, either. Still… “That’s _Muriel_?”

“Yes, it is. He knows I don’t like to eat dinner alone, so he’ll come keep me company on the nights Faust is at the Palace with Asra and the bakery in the Marketplace is closed,” they explained. “He fell asleep while we were waiting for Asra to come home.” Before the doctor could probe for details, he found himself steered away from the subject by the shopkeeper pressing a warm mug of coffee into his hands and saying, “Go on and sit, Doctor. Please.”

“Right… thanks.” 

After he claimed one of the chairs at the table, Asra’s soulmate proceeded to sit next to him rather than across from him, watching him intently as he took his first sip of the coffee they’d made for him. Obligingly, Julian did, and it was with the entirety of his willpower that he held back a grimace. 

“Wow. This is…” _Don’t say awful, don’t say awful,_ **_don’t say awful_** _._ “Lovely,” he finally managed.

Julian was quite possibly the worst cook the world had ever seen, but even the coffee he prepared for himself—which Lucio had once pestered him into making for him and then had oh-so-politely termed _swill_ —was drinkable at the very least, unlike whatever was in the cup Asra’s soulmate had just given him. The liquid itself was black and dark and smelled bitter—all signs of good coffee, just the way he liked it—but its taste was… indescribable, to put it kindly.

Most people knew that, in Vesuvia, the only magician better than Asra was his soulmate, but it seemed as if skill with magic didn’t automatically transfer over into other areas.

However, free coffee was free coffee, and Asra’s soulmate was just too adorable to disappoint.

“It’s delicious,” Julian told them, choking down another sip with a forced smile. “Thank you.”

“Really?” they said. “Good! I’m glad. Asra, Muriel, and I all prefer tea, so I don’t get a chance to make it that often.”

 _That may be for the best_ , Julian didn’t say. There was no reason to be rude, especially not when the shopkeeper had, unasked, already done so much for him within mere minutes. If it’d been their intention to distract him from his weariness and the overwhelming hopelessness of his situation with their bad coffee, they’d certainly succeeded: it was difficult to think about Lucio and thwarting the inevitability of death when he was busy trying to purge the memory of the coffee’s taste from his mind.

“Are you feeling any better?” Asra’s soulmate asked after a moment. Surprisingly, Julian was; he nodded, causing the other to smile at him, pleased. “Good. Would you like to talk about it?”

He snorted. “I would, but I’m sure Asra’s already told you everything there is to know.” 

“I don’t think…” They let their sentence trail off as they leaned forward to get a closer look at him. Julian coughed and glanced away, shifting under the weight of their stare. “Oh!” they eventually said, sitting back, eyes widening in understanding. “ _You’re_ Ilya!” A sheepish pink suffused their cheeks, and he was instantly jealous that Asra’s soulmate had the power to make even _blushing_ attractive. “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you and Ilya were one and the same until just now. Asra’s never mentioned you by any other name.” They shook their head. “I was wondering where you got that key…”

Apparently, not telling those closest to him important details—like _other people’s names_ —was a recurring theme with Asra.

“You… seriously didn’t know?” the doctor asked, shocked. He’d broken into their shop with the intention of borrowing a few things here or there without asking, and the shopkeeper had still invited him upstairs for tea, despite not knowing he was—no, no,  _had been_ —their soulmate’s friend? 

“Well, _no_ , but…” They shrugged. “I may not have worked with you long, Doctor, but I remember how much you cared about your patients,” they answered quietly. “You were obviously upset earlier… I wasn’t going to ask you to leave.”

Again, Julian couldn’t help but think it unfair that _Asra_ of all people had been blessed with such a charming partner. “I… thank you,” he said honestly, voice low, touched as he was by the sheer kindness of their gesture; then, in an effort to clear the heavy air that’d settled over them, he shot them a joking, rakish grin and a wink. “You’re _far_ too good a person for Asra, my dear. Should you ever tire of him…”

Thankfully, his attempt to lighten the mood worked—Asra’s soulmate laughed aloud, stifling it with the flat of their hand in an effort not to wake Muriel.

“Are you saying you’re _better_ than Asra, Doctor?” they teased.

“Please, call me Julian,” he said, grinning. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that your answer wasn’t exactly a _no_.”

“Well, _Julian_ ,” they responded, drawing the sound of his name out playfully, “I think you know just as well as I do that our soulmates are the jealous type—it’s a _no_ , for both of our sakes.”

Oh, they were _good_ , weren’t they? Julian hadn’t engaged in such delightful repartee for some time, now—he’d always become too tongue-tied around Nadia to try flirting with her, he hadn’t dared to push his luck with Asra after Asra had originally declined his advances, and Lucio’s style of flirting was less _flirting_ and more just plain _aggression_. 

Their banter was almost enough to make him overlook the fact that, just as the doctor had expected, Asra must’ve told his soulmate about Lucio, or else they wouldn’t have made such a quip.

Julian had been about to reply when he and Asra’s partner turned towards the entrance to the stairway, the both of them having heard the sound of the front door opening and closing followed by the soft patter of footsteps coming up the stairs. The footsteps couldn’t have belonged to anyone else besides Asra—his soulmate and Muriel were already here, and, as far as Julian knew, he was the only other person to whom Asra had given a key; Julian—desperate to avoid him, particularly so now that talking to Asra’s soulmate had buoyed his spirits—rushed to stand, wincing as the chair screeched loudly in protest, but he hadn’t been quick enough to dive out of the nearby window before Asra spotted him.

Within seconds, the magician he’d considered a friend was coming to the top of the steps, making eye contact with him and asking in genuine confusion, “Ilya?”

Asra hadn’t returned home alone, though: in addition to the snake curled around his neck, perched atop his head was a friendly face Julian hadn’t come across in at least a week.

“Camio!” the doctor greeted, relieved to see Lucio’s favorite bird. With a squawk, Camio leapt from his spot on top of Asra’s head and obediently flew over to sit on the arm Julian held out to him.

“Shh!” Asra’s soulmate went pale, and they held a finger up to their lips. “Please, Julian,” they said, darting a panicked glance in the direction of the bed, “can you keep your bird quiet? I don’t want them waking Muriel.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologized, deliberately neglecting to mention that Camio was not _his_ bird but Lucio’s. Sighing, he scratched under Camio’s chin and addressed him in a murmur. “Pipe down for a minute, okay, handsome? We’ll be outside soon enough and you’ll be able to make as much noise as you like.”

Although he didn’t look too happy with the request, Camio cooed softly, ruffling his feathers, and Julian took that as his tacit agreement.

“Ilya, what are you doing here?” Asra asked. “Why aren’t you at the Palace?” After sending a dark glare in Camio’s direction, he added, “But you being here _does_ explain why Camio followed me home. I think he was searching for you.”

 _Oh_. Had Lucio sent Camio to check on his soulmate? There was no reason Camio would’ve left his usual roost in the Palace gardens to try to find Julian of his own volition, so surely his owner was behind his sudden appearance; the gesture was surprisingly thoughtful, and Julian was glad to have the comforting weight of Camio on his arm as he faced Asra.

“Well, I’m sorry he troubled you, but thank you for leading him here. We’d best get out of your hair,” he told the magician stiffly. With that, he turned his back to Asra and spoke to the other’s soulmate, allowing himself to give them a small, grateful smile. “I hope I didn’t overstay my welcome. Thank you for everything.”

“Of course you didn’t, Julian. There’s no need to thank me—it was a pleasure having you,” said Asra’s partner, their lips a tight, concerned line, and they exchanged a worried glance with their soulmate. “You’re welcome here anytime. Will I see you again soon?”

“I’m afraid that might not be such a good idea,” Julian answered, truly regretful. 

He slid a hand into his pocket and produced the key to the shop’s back room Asra had gifted him, and, with deep sorrow, he pressed it into Asra’s soulmate’s palm and gently curled the magician’s fingers around it before letting go. 

While returning the key was difficult, it had to be done: with Muriel as well as Asra’s soulmate only so far away, he couldn’t say to Asra what he wished he could nor could he ask for the answers he felt he deserved, at least not without starting a fight. Giving back the key… he supposed that spoke for him well enough.

“Ilya…?” Asra asked. His face fell as he recognized just what Julian had placed into his partner’s hand.

The doctor swiftly held up a hand, preventing Asra from continuing. “Not… not right now. Please,” he said, nodding to where Muriel was still fast asleep despite the commotion around him. Asra frowned, but he remained silent nonetheless, and Julian gave his partner a wobbly smile. “I ought to go.”

Before either Asra or his partner could offer their own farewells, he sketched what was almost certainly an awkward, clumsy bow and then left in a flurry, his overcoat almost slipping from his shoulders as he took the stairs two at a time. There was an uncomfortable sense of finality that came with shutting the shop’s door behind him, making him feel as if he was shutting Asra—and, by extension, Nadia—out of his life altogether. Not wanting to examine the depressing nature of _that_ thought, he took off down the street, Camio hopping over to sit on his shoulder and digging his talons into the fabric of his coat to stay upright.

He couldn’t believe he’d let his hesitance to confront Asra get the better of himself like that; he’d gone to the shop to rummage through Asra’s things, to see if he could find something— _anything_ —that might be helpful in his search for a cure for the Plague, yet there he was, stalking down Vesuvia’s many side streets, the bottom of his pants wet from having stepped in one of the ever-present puddles outside of the magicians’ shop and still no closer to saving his soulmate. 

At this rate, Lucio was going to die before Julian even made it past the Marketplace.

“Julian!” someone was shouting down the alleyway, their voice ringing along the cobblestones alongside the clatter of their shoes. “Julian, wait!”

Exhaling sharply, Julian stopped and turned, ready to tell off whoever had decided to trail after him until he saw that it was Asra’s soulmate; they were running, hurrying to catch up to him, and as soon as they neared him they huffed in relief, slumping forward and panting heavily, trying to catch their breath. When Camio screeched at them in warning, they suddenly jumped, terrified, and straightened and reflexively held up their hands in surrender, eyes wide with apprehension. The motion drew Julian’s attention to the book in their grasp: the book was nondescript and unremarkable except for the symbol embossed on its front cover, the odd lines of it glinting silver in the dull light of the lamps scattered down the alley.

Hesitantly, walking the last few steps slowly so as not to anger Camio, Asra’s partner approached, keeping their hands raised.

“Um…” they began, and then, falling silent, they merely held out the book to him, the look in their eyes heavy with remorse. “Here,” they finished lamely, biting their lip. When Julian—bewildered by the other’s random appearance in the alleyway—made no move to accept the book, they encouragingly pushed it towards his chest, giving him no choice but to take it from them. “Please. I’d like you to have this.”

Gingerly, Julian turned the book over in his hold, inspecting its front and back covers. Something about it intimidated him—the book’s air was dangerous and mysterious, unnaturally drawing him in, whispering to him the promise of answers but at a steep price.

“I won’t ask what happened between you and Asra,” continued Asra’s partner. At the sound of their voice, Julian jerked his gaze back up and away from the book, and he found the shopkeeper meekly watching him and gauging his reaction, fidgeting with nerves where they stood. “It’s none of my business, and I don’t want to intrude.” _And Asra will just tell you later, anyway_ , the doctor thought to himself. “But… I think I can guess what you were after when you came to the shop.”

“I really wasn’t going to steal anything,” he told them again, the words weak. “I swear.”

“I know,” they said. “You’re researching the Plague, aren’t you? Looking for a cure?” Julian nodded. “For Count Lucio?” they added softly.

He brought his free hand up to rub at his temple—there was no point in denying it, and, if there were anyone to whom he could admit aloud that his desperation to cure the Plague was more out of a desire to save Lucio than it was to save Vesuvia, it’d be Asra’s soulmate.

“Yes,” he conceded. Sighing, he dropped his hand again and brushed his thumb over intricate the symbol on the book’s cover, idly tracing its outline. “I… yes.”

After a moment, Asra’s partner nodded. “Well,” they murmured, laying their hand on top of the one of Julian’s, “I won't pretend to understand your reasons—Count Lucio has hurt too many people I love too deeply for me to ever forgive him—but… you deserve happiness, Doctor. If _he’s_ what makes you happy, then…” Brows furrowing, they pursed their lips and shook their head before their expression smoothed out once more, and they gave Julian’s hand a light squeeze. “I hope this book helps. Good luck, Julian.”

Without allowing him time to respond, Asra’s soulmate smiled and bid him a simple goodnight, leaving Julian standing there in the alleyway, too overwhelmed by the compassion of their gesture to do anything but stare at the book in his hands in silence. Only once their outline had been completely swallowed by the darkness at the opposite end of the alley did the doctor fully recover, and, sparing a second to reach up and scratch Camio’s head in thanks for his company, he made to resume his trek back to the Palace.

But, as he slid the book under his arm, something dropped from its pages and hit the cobblestone with a sharp _clang_.

It was the key to the shop’s back room.

 _Of course_. Julian bent to retrieve the key from where it had fallen to the ground, and he slipped it into his pocket with a fond sigh.

* * *

By the time Julian returned to the Palace, the sun had begun to rise, marking the dawn of a new day and reminding the doctor that he had only so much time left to find a cure for the Plague before Lucio finally succumbed to his illness and Vesuvia was forced to watch as its Count took his last breath. 

Growing up, Julian had always liked sunrises—the warmth of the sun’s weak rays on his skin, the sounds of those around him waking and preparing to go about their day, the freedom of the chance to fix yesterday’s mistakes—but it’d been his time at sea that had truly strengthened his _like_ into _love_. Even when he’d been young enough to share a bed with Portia and sunrises had meant coming to with a groan as he’d catalogued all the places Portia had kicked him in her sleep, he’d still enjoyed them—but no childhood memory had ever compared to those first gleams of sunlight on the water, looking out over the bow and towards the horizon and seeing nothing but calm, shimmering blue.

A fondness for early mornings was something he thought he’d carry with him forever—at least until he’d encountered the Plague.

If there was one thing besides its lethality for which he resented the Plague, it was that the disease had stolen his ability to admire the light of daybreak: now, sunrise did nothing but warn him that each Plague victim’s finite number of days before their death was relentlessly continuing to dwindle. The sun itself served only to illuminate the smoke billowing from the Lazaret, and its every reappearance in the sky brought his visions of Lucio’s death that much closer to reality.

Lucio reaching the end of his life was a nightmare Julian had started to suffer often as of late, the occurrences growing in frequency since the moment he’d truly realized the Count was not merely sick but _dying_. The nightmare itself took multiple forms, but its most harrowing incarnation was the one in which Lucio perished in the Lazaret, cremated alongside the droves of his subjects and leaving Julian—unable to separate Lucio’s ashes from those of the Plague’s every other victim—with nothing to bury and nothing by which to remember him at all.

It was a small blessing that, in the dungeons, the lack of a view to the outside world meant Julian could pretend time wasn’t passing at all. There, he could ignore the never-ending cycle of day and night, and he could focus on his research until he passed out, his body so desperate for rest that exhaustion prevented him from reliving his nightmares altogether.

As soon as the guards let him through the Palace gates, Julian hightailed it towards his office, the book Asra’s soulmate had given him clutched in his hand. No matter how badly he wanted to see his soulmate, he couldn’t allow himself any distractions—he could shower Lucio with as much attention as the man constantly demanded from him once the cure had been found, but, until that point, he had to sequester himself away in the dungeons, far from any and all temptation. The gift from Asra’s partner seemed promising in a way none of the other resources Julian had used so far did, and he owed it to both Lucio and himself to give the book his complete concentration, lest he not find a cure in time to avert Lucio’s death.

After all, in the book was something even the greatest magician in Vesuvia had thought he’d find useful; although he’d always been one to expect the worst, it was still possible the book contained _just_ the lead he needed. 

From what he’d last seen of his soulmate, he guessed Lucio had maybe a week of life left in him, and Julian knew he could either spend that week with Lucio _or_ he could spend it paging through whatever mysticism Asra’s partner had seen fit to give him. Sacrificing days with his soulmate in the hopes of gaining _years_ with his soulmate was a more than fair trade, he thought. 

Surely Lucio would understand.

With reluctance, Julian sent Camio back to his master’s side before he stepped onto the lift to the dungeons—he at least wanted to give Lucio the notice that he was back in the Palace. Even if he couldn’t deliver the message himself, needing to center himself in his research and to avoid the diversion Lucio would no doubt turn out to be, Lucio still deserved to know Julian had upheld his promise not to run. While Julian preferred to believe Lucio had ordered Camio to search him out in order to provide him with company, he couldn’t ignore that Lucio’s intentions had probably _also_ included using Camio to spy on him. He would’ve been annoyed with Lucio keeping track of his whereabouts, but, considering his history, he supposed it was somewhat justified.

Although Camio screeched in protest and nipped his finger more violently than he ever had, likely displeased that Julian _wasn’t_ immediately running to the Count’s side, he obeyed the request and flew from Julian’s shoulder; however, he then perched on a nearby unlit torch, where he proceeded to glare until the lift had taken the doctor out of sight. 

When Julian exited the elevator, he suddenly found himself face to face with Valdemar.

“Doctor,” they greeted. Staining their entire front was what had to be an entire body’s worth of blood, soaking everything that wasn’t covered by their apron, mask included; as they pulled at their mask, it slid down their skin with a disturbing squelch, leaving behind on their skin eerie streaks of red. “You were absent during the disposal of corpses. Was I not clear enough yesterday?”

 _Damn it_. His boss _had_ asked him to help with that, hadn’t they? What with everything that’d happened with Lucio, he’d totally forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking not at Valdemar directly but at a spot a little behind and to the left of their shoulders. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen them covered head to toe in gore, but it’d never become any less unsettling. “I, uh…” He pursed his lips. “Lucio… needed something from me.” 

They tilted their head. “Our beloved Count is _Lucio_ to you now, is he,” they drawled, raising a brow. Before Julian could stutter out a response, they continued, their lizard-like eyes alighting on the book in his grasp. “Oh? And what have we here?” They stuck their hands out in a flash, aiming to steal the book from him and inspect it, but he managed to snatch it away and hold it out of their reach at the last second, keeping it safe from their bloody gloves. The book had been a gift from Asra’s soulmate, and he refused to let anyone besides himself damage it. Drawing back, his boss tutted in disapproval and shook their head. “Ah… perhaps another one of your poorly written romance novels, then.”

“How did you…?” Julian began, confused, though he soon trailed off. Valdemar had the dungeon's master key—they must’ve snooped through the things in his office. “Nevermind.”

“Hm.” Valdemar stared at him in silence for a few moments before they replaced their mask over their mouth, unbothered by the blood. “You’re lucky I was feeling generous yesterday and decided not to finish without you, Doctor.” They waved in the direction of the cistern filled with beetles, next to which was yet another pile of dead, Plague-ravaged bodies. “You may dispose of those at your leisure.”

“Oh… goody,” he said weakly. “Thank you ever so much.”

“Your enthusiasm has been noted,” Valdemar replied.

They turned to resume shuffling around the various organs of the disembodied torso on the table in front of them, effectively ending the conversation. Horrifyingly enough, the longer Julian looked at the torso on the table, the more familiar it seemed: he recognized it as having once belonged to one of his colleagues, a woman who’d caught the Plague days ago, and the rest of her—head, limbs, _everything_ —had simply been tossed aside into the stack of corpses of which Valdemar had told him to dispose.

Trying his best not to gag, Julian edged past his boss and into his office, shutting the door behind him on the scene of Valdemar with their hands buried deep inside the body of someone he’d just seen healthy and alive last week. He couldn’t recall her name—Valdemar had only ever called her _Doctor 051_ , and the physicians themselves had decided not to exchange names, either, to make it less painful when one of them died—but he remembered that she’d always been courteous to him. If he’d required any _more_ motivation to cure the Plague, then there it was: even though saving his soulmate had become the reason closest to his heart, it was clear Vesuvia desperately needed saving, too.

He swept his arm across the desk, pushing the odd book and sheaf of paper onto the floor, and set down the tome from Asra’s soulmate before taking a seat and scrutinizing the design on the front cover. The symbol was mesmerizing, the lines of it skillfully done and inlaid with a dazzling silver, but its shape was bizarre, almost resembling a compass. Even though he’d read more than his fair share of Asra’s books full of spells and magical theory and other nonsensical rot, he’d still never come across anything like this. It took him the better part of an hour to trace the symbol to his liking, yet even drawing it for himself hadn’t offered any insight—he couldn’t so much as guess the symbol’s purpose.

As he flipped through the book’s pages in search of a brief explanation, he realized, groaning, that the language in which it was written wasn’t his first, nor was it one with which he’d claim to be comfortable. _Of course._ Life had never been that easy, so why would it start to be now? Thankfully, a few of Asra’s other books had been in this foreign language, so Julian had been able to become at least somewhat familiar with its translation. On a shelf above his desk was another of Asra’s books in the same language, in fact, and he pulled it down, relieved to see that he’d stuffed the book with his notes, including the papers where he’d recorded frequently appearing words and their meanings.

From what he could gather from the book’s introduction, Asra’s partner had given information about _rituals_ , of all things. He wasn’t a magician, and he was more skeptical than not towards magic overall—what good was this supposed to do him? He knew they wouldn’t have given the book to him without a reason, but, with every word he translated and every image he sketched, the more confusing the book’s contents and Asra’s partner’s meaning in gifting this to him became. And _translating_ didn’t necessarily equate to _understanding_ ; whoever had written the book must’ve done so under the impression that its audience would exclusively be magicians, because the amount of words and phrases that made Julian stop and scratch his head was absurd. He didn’t think cross-referencing had ever been this tedious before.

By the time he’d finished reading most of the book’s first quarter, he was still no closer to a cure than he’d been when he’d started, and his hopes were steadily waning. He could hardly do anything with a book on _magic_ for _magicians_ —out of all of the books in their shop, why had Asra’s soulmate specifically given him _this_? There had to be _something_ in this book worth reading, or else Asra’s soulmate wouldn’t have asked him to use it. Were it any other book, Julian would’ve already put it aside by now, but he was determined to reach the end of this one and see what about it was so special that it’d caught the shopkeeper’s attention.

The book was _frustrating_ , and Julian felt that it was just his luck that Lucio had decided to walk into his office unannounced at the same moment he’d smacked away his ink pot in a pique of distress.

“Hey—watch it!” Lucio hollered, and the doctor froze, able to do nothing but watch, terrified, as the ink pot sailed in the other’s direction. The pot shattered against the wall, spraying glass and ink, but Lucio dodged getting hit just in time, although some of the ink did splatter onto his pants. Cheeks flaring red with anger, the Count huffed, annoyed, and he used a hand to wipe at the ink on his pants, face turning even redder as the action only served to rub the ink into the fabric further; his other hand was closed into a loose fist, as if he were holding something. “ _Damn it_ , Jules!”

“L-Lucio!” Julian spluttered, rushing to stand from his chair and almost tripping. The chair skittered backwards and tipped over, slamming against the ground with a harsh squeak, the sound making him wince. “I’m sorry! You didn’t knock!”

“It’s _my_ Palace!” Lucio growled. “Why would I have to knock?!”

“Common decency?” Julian suggested, and then blanched as he realized he’d said the words aloud. “Anyway,” he went on, hurrying to continue before Lucio registered what he’d said, “um, do you… do you need me for something?”

“Do I _need_ something?” Lucio repeated. “You’re kidding, right?” The doctor shook his head. “Why don’t we start with the fact that I had to learn you’d come back from _Camio_?”

Camio had delivered the message with both his and his owner’s usual amount of tact, then.

“Lucio…” Julian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and then he choked as Lucio, without warning, snatched the collar of his shirt and used it to wrench him forward until they were a hairsbreadth apart.

“I guess you did your _thinking_ , huh?” the Count hissed. “What happened to it not being a _no_ , Jules? Sure _seems_ like a _no_.”

Lucio’s pupils were blown wide, his glare manic and almost crazed, and the bags under his eyes had grown darker and more pronounced to the point that he looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. Had he kept himself awake the entire time Julian had been gone, waiting for the doctor’s return? He’d clearly washed and shaved, but a bath hadn’t been enough to erase every trace of exhaustion from his appearance: the hand he had clenched in Julian’s shirt was weak and shaking, he’d bitten his lips raw, and, when he’d hauled Julian towards him, he’d swayed dangerously, as though he’d been about to collapse. 

Under the weight of his fatigue, his facade of hostility crumbled—he seemed more _frightened_ at the idea that he’d been rejected than anything, and Julian’s heart broke.

“Lucio…” he said softly. His movements slow and gentle, giving Lucio enough time to push him away, he settled a hand on top of the one the other had curled into his collar, and he removed Lucio’s hand from his shirt. Encouraged by Lucio’s lack of protest, he kept a firm, reassuring grip on his hand, and, after a moment, he entwined their fingers, offering up a small, reassuring smile. “I’m sorry. It’s not a _no_ , I swear. It’s just…” He let out a deep breath. “It’s just a _not right now_."

Lucio took a half-step back, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, but he didn’t tug his hand free, which was promising. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?” he asked.

“Look, we… we have to talk,” the doctor explained, “but we need time to do that. And you…” He swallowed, unwilling to say it aloud, and merely shook his head. “We don’t _have_ time.”

“But we’ll have time once you cure the Plague?” Lucio finished for him, and he nodded. “So… you’re making me wait.”

“Not for long,” he answered hopefully, gesturing to the open book on his desk.

“Mhm. And if…” Frowning, the Count glanced away, glaring at the various books and scrolls and papers scattered about the room. “If you take longer than you should?” he eventually asked.

Although Lucio’s words had been largely innocuous, Julian was able to hear the real, far more grief-stricken question lurking underneath.

“I won’t,” he said quietly, lifting his free hand to Lucio’s face and cupping his cheek. 

Touch light, he brushed his thumb across the gaunt line of the other’s cheekbones. Even over the course of a single day, Lucio had become worryingly delicate: the angles of his features were that much sharper, his skin that much more pallid, and, even through the layer of leather gloves separating them, he felt warm and feverish, his cheek burning hot under Julian’s palm.

Giving him a week to live had probably been a generous estimate.

“I won’t let you die,” Julian promised, and then, sliding his fingers under the other’s chin, he tilted his soulmate’s head up and kissed him.

It’d worked to bring a little life back into Lucio’s eyes last time, and it didn’t fail to do so again: as soon as Julian pressed their lips together, Lucio surged forward, unlinking their hands and winding his arms around the doctor’s waist, clenching his fingers in the back of Julian’s shirt. There was the faint sound of a _crunch_ and the odd sensation of something getting squished against his back, but Julian quickly forgot about it in favor of kissing Lucio senseless.

Unfortunately, Lucio pulled back all too soon, although it wasn’t so much him pulling back as it was him shoving Julian away.

“ _Shit_ ,” he breathed, eyes wide, staring at Julian with dread. “I…” He shook his head. “Ugh, _damn it_.”

“Lucio…?” Julian asked, reaching out to steady him, but Lucio dodged his attempt. Dropping his hands, he pressed, “Lucio, what—?”

“S-Shut up,” the Count ordered, panicked. “You, uh…” He backed up into the door, hitting it with a loud _slam_ that must’ve been painful, and he scowled, sticking his hands behind his back and fumbling blindly for the doorknob, his prosthetic rattling against the wood. Finally, he succeeded in finding the doorknob, and he turned it so hurriedly it squeaked in protest and then swung the door open. “Y-You have until the Masquerade to come up with a cure before I, um…” As he stepped through the doorway, he stumbled briefly, but he was able to catch himself without the doctor’s help.

“Lucio, wait—” Julian pleaded. 

“Before I take matters into my own hands!” Lucio interrupted, high-pitched and still frantically backing away. “So, uh… H-Hurry up!”

Before Julian could beg for him to stay, he turned on his heel and fled, taking off for the exit to the dungeons faster than someone with his poor health should’ve been able to run. Bewildered, Julian stared after him; after a moment, he went to inspect the hallway that led to the lift, but both the elevator and Lucio were gone.

“Oh, dear, Doctor 069,” Valdemar chided, making Julian jump at the sound of their voice. Unexpectedly, his boss swiped at the back of his shirt, dragging their fingertips across the spot where Lucio’s hands had been. He’d about to shuffle away from them but stopped short when Valdemar extended their hand, holding it up in front of their face, and he blinked at the red dust that coated their fingers. “How clumsy of you.” They grinned, eyes swiftly cutting towards him and the edges of their mask lifting. “You must be more careful with the Plague beetles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops 👀👀👀
> 
> also DAMN is writing a nameless, faceless, and genderless character difficult. i didn't want to say anything specific about mc just so ppl could like, project their own mc......so, uh. this is the end result. sorry if it got awkward at points smh
> 
> how in the fuck did this fic get to be 50k. why does it take me 1000 words to describe one little thing? and no one has even fucked yet!!! ughh why am i like this


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy fucking shit why are y’all so fuckin nice to me?? if ive said it once ive said it a million times im just so flattered by and honored to have all your kind words and support :’)) 
> 
> and sorry for the wait on this part btw. im....not entirely pleased w it and i feel bad putting out stuff im not at least 75% happy with (especially after all the nice shit you’ve said to me in the interim!!!! like damn, now i feel really bad) but tbh when have i ever been happy with my writing, so. but i just can’t look at this and try to figure out what specifically is bugging me anymore so it’s all yours now, friends 😥 i hope you enjoy it anyway despite my own misgivings 🙏🙏
> 
> (me, writing this: “does magic even work like that” me to me: “it does now”)

Asra’s soulmate sat peacefully across from him, their legs crossed and hands on their knees, seemingly unbothered by the harsh cold of the stone floor. Meanwhile, Asra himself was sitting between his soulmate and Julian, on the edge of the spell circle, and he was worrying his lip between his teeth, flicking wary glances between his soulmate and the lines that comprised the transportation spell. With a reassuring smile, Asra’s soulmate caught their fellow magician’s eyes, took one of his hands in theirs, and squeezed gently, the deep affection and love in their gaze overwhelming. Relaxing, Asra let out a deep breath, and he leaned over to press a kiss against their cheek and whispered his thanks in their ear, causing them to giggle and to swat him away playfully. 

Julian coughed.

It was the final night before the Masquerade, giving him only so many hours to find a cure for the Plague before Lucio followed through on his mysterious ultimatum, and he’d reached his last resort: a visit to the Hanged Man’s realm, facilitated by a transportation spell by Asra’s partner.

The book had contained nothing but information on rituals that could be used to travel to other realms. He’d spent the last few days frantically paging through it, searching every line, word, and letter for something more, but it had offered nothing else besides the eerie feeling that he should speak to Asra’s soulmate yet again. The longer he’d scoured the book for something useful, the more he’d felt an otherworldly desire—something definitely not his own—to consult with the magician. He’d tried ignoring it, but it’d eventually driven him almost to the point of madness, where his every other thought had been urging him to summon Asra’s partner to the Palace, and, reluctantly, he’d given in, too exhausted to keep fighting the impulse.

He’d sent Asra’s soulmate a missive asking them to meet him at the Palace, trusting the message to be delivered only by Camio. Camio must’ve delivered the message just as swiftly as he’d hoped he would, because the magician appeared in his office within the hour, soaking wet and ringing out their tunic. Laughing, they’d explained that they’d traveled to the Palace via the fountain in the gardens—according to them, they’d forgotten the spell to wick the water from their body as they’d emerged from the fountain, with the result that they’d been summarily drenched. 

“Can’t you just…” Julian had waved a hand, letting his voice trail off. When they’d simply stared at him, not understanding, he’d sighed and finished,  “Can’t you just magic them dry?”

They’d smiled innocently—an expression they’d pulled off unfairly well—and then shrugged. “I like living with my mistakes. It helps me remember for next time.”

Although that hadn’t exactly instilled in him much confidence in their abilities, he supposed that, given their reputation as a magician, they were allowed some eccentricities, and he’d described his situation to them regardless.

“The book… told you to talk to me?” they’d asked, blinking at him in surprise. A contemplative look had then stolen over their features, and they’d hummed idly to themselves, deep in thought, before they’d simply shrugged. “Well, that’s not what I expected, but we can work with that!”

To Julian’s dismay, they’d summoned their soulmate down to his office in the dungeons as well, and together Asra and his partner had come up with the plan to send Julian to the Hanged Man to ask for his help; however, instead of starting the ritual as soon as possible, Asra and his soulmate had spent the past few minutes just… flirting.

“If we could, uh, get a move on here?” Julian asked hesitantly. He didn’t mean to begrudge Asra and his soulmate their time together, but _his own soulmate_ was dying, and the sooner he got Lucio to stop dying, the better. “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but…”

“Sorry, Julian,” said Asra’s partner, still not facing him and sounding not at all apologetic. They planted a quick peck on Asra’s lips and then turned forward again, so the doctor could see them clearly. “Shall I go over everything one last time?”

“Please,” Julian replied, still not too comfortable with the plan. Magic had always seemed like nothing more than phony hocus pocus to him, but now that he had no choice but to put his faith in magic, he wanted to try to comprehend it the best he could.

“So, I’ll be sending you to the Hanged Man’s realm,” they told him. “Asra’s told me of your bond with the Hanged Man, so I think they’re going to be your best bet—I’ve never felt close to them, but hopefully their realm won’t be too difficult for me to reach. And I’ll be sending Asra along with you as a safety net, just in case. Should you encounter any trouble, all Asra has to do is tug on the thread connecting him to me and I’ll pull you two out of the spell. 

“It’s as simple as that,” they finished cheerfully, flashing him a smile. 

 _Simple_ , they said, as if the idea of using something as potentially unreliable as magic to jump between realms wasn’t one of the most ridiculous things Julian had heard in a long time. If anyone besides Asra’s soulmate had offered to perform the ritual, he still would have inevitably accepted—desperate times and all that—but he would’ve at least _considered_ refusing first.

The doctor nodded slowly. “And the reason you can't come with me instead of Asra is…?”

Frowning, Asra shot him a glare at the question, but he settled back as his soulmate placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

“We suspect it’ll be easier for me to reach the Hanged Man than it would be for Asra,” they told Julian, “but we’d also prefer it if you were to have a magician with you in the realm. So, since I have to stay here to perform the spell, Asra will be the one to accompany you and help you directly at your side.”

 _He’s yet to give me any_ **_actual_ ** _help so far_ , Julian thought sourly, but he shook his head. While he no longer trusted Asra—not after the magician had deliberately kept Lucio’s name from him—he did trust Asra’s soulmate. If they’d deemed it necessary that Asra join him on his journey to reach the Hanged Man, then he’d grin and bear it.

“Right,” he said. “Should I, you know…” He pursed his lips. “Should I do anything in particular?”

“If you’re ready, then just close your eyes.”

“Just… close my eyes.” Obediently, he did as instructed. “Like, uh… like this? Is this good?”

“Exactly like that. Now, I need you to take a deep breath. Can you do that for me?” He inhaled and held it, and Asra’s soulmate continued, a smile audible in their tone. “Great, thank you. Okay, now, let it out… listen to my voice… and…”

Soon, the sweet, dulcet words of Asra’s soulmate drifted off into nothingness, the sound of their voice swallowed by a powerful, starry void of darkness and silence. Suddenly panicking at the loss of their presence, Julian opened his eyes only to be met with an endless, dull panorama of murky water. He gasped for breath and then choked on the water that rushed into his mouth, limbs flailing to find solid ground when two hands grabbed him under his shoulders and used the leverage to haul him up and out of the water. The water had tasted like ash—bent over and spluttering, hands on his knees, he tried to expel the last of the water from his lungs, throat going hoarse with the attempt.

“Ilya! Ilya, stop! You’re fine!” came Asra’s voice from somewhere nearby, and a hand alighted on his back and patted him lightly. Still on edge from almost drowning, Julian spun and snatched the wrist of the person who’d touched him. Eyes wide, his wrist captured tightly in Julian’s hold, Asra blinked up at him and asked in concern,  “Ilya?”

Face burning, Julian hurriedly let go of Asra’s wrist.

“Um… sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s fine,” Asra told him quietly.

Something almost like regret or guilt was in Asra’s expression as he stared at Julian, and it was making the doctor wary. “Let’s just…” Without looking, he waved in a random direction, ready to start the trek through the forest to find the Hanged Man and hoping the walk would distract Asra from whatever was obviously bothering him. “Let’s just go, okay?”

“Okay,” the magician agreed.

The Hanged Man’s realm resembled a swamp, and it was just as tricky to navigate as one, too; every time Julian stepped forward, his boot got sucked into the ground and he sunk just slightly into the mud, and he kept ending up having to shake his boot loose before he could take another step. He brushed against the branches of the mangrove trees and the vines wrapped around them even if he tried to avoid touching them. It was as if they had minds of their own—every so often, he felt something tap his shoulder, but, whenever he turned, all he saw was Asra trudging through the mud a few steps behind him, too far away to have been able to touch him. Once or twice, he’d tried to see for himself the branches and the vines moving of their own volition, listening for the telltale rustle of leaves, but they’d always managed to slither back into place at the last second before he could catch them, and he gave up.

 _This_ was the realm of the Major Arcana to whom he supposedly had a connection? It was a nightmarish, overgrown marshland, filled with dirty water and mischievous plants and illuminated by faint red light that gave it a sickly, menacing glow. He _would have_ thought the realm interesting to explore, if his perception of it hadn’t been tainted by Asra’s soulmate having told him that his bond with the Hanged Man likely meant that particular Arcana was emblematic of his character. Their belief that he was represented by the Hanged Man and the fact that the Hanged Man lived in such desolate, dangerous conditions came together to form a worrying picture of himself that he didn’t want to face.

Was this what other people thought of him? 

No matter how hard he tried to shove the thought to the back of his mind, it continued to gnaw at him relentlessly, and, lost as he was in his own gloom, he almost tripped over the exposed roots of a tree.

“Careful!” Asra said, rushing to keep him from falling flat on his face. Thankfully, Julian was able to right himself quickly and wave the magician off, but Asra didn’t leave his side. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he answered. “Um, thanks.”

He went to start walking again, but Asra stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Ilya…” Asra said, and Julian knew instantly what the other was going to say.

Asra had stayed blessedly quiet the whole time they’d been in the Hanged Man’s realm so far—not bringing up what’d happened between them like he so clearly wanted to—but it seemed Julian’s luck had finally run out.

“Don’t,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “Please, just… don’t. I don’t want to do this right now.”

Asra frowned. “You don’t even know what I—”

“Yes, I do.” Julian sighed. “Look, if you’re going to apologize for keeping things from me, I just… don’t want to hear it at the moment. We can… we can talk about Lucio later, once the Plague is cured and we have the time.”

“Apologize?” the magician said incredulously, brows rising towards his hairline. “Ilya, I think you’ve misunderstood something. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, I really am, but I’m not sorry I didn’t tell you about Lucio’s name.”

Julian froze. _What?_ “You’re… not sorry,” he repeated.

Asra shook his head. “Nadi and I were just trying to protect you,” he confessed. 

“You… wanted to protect me.” Julian drew the words out slowly, trying to make sense of whatever poor excuse Asra was trying to feed him. “From… my soulmate?”

Asra narrowed his eyes. “From _Lucio_ ,” he insisted. He said it as if they were two different people, when, in reality, he’d once known better than Julian himself that they were the same. “He’s not a good man, Ilya. Getting involved with him is a bad idea.”

Well, that was probably true, but Julian was no stranger to following through on bad ideas. 

Something about what Asra had said suddenly struck him as odd, though. “Wait, then why did you try to make him jealous?” he asked. “Did you think it _wouldn’t_ end in me getting involved with him?”

“He clearly wasn’t going to approach you on his own, but you deserved to hear that Montag used to be his name from _him_ and not from me or Nadi and you deserved to hear it before he died—and since he didn’t have much longer to live, I thought I’d… give him a little push.” Dropping his voice to a whisper, Asra continued. “I didn’t expect you to want him, and especially not so badly that you’d go to such lengths like this to cure him.”

The implication that, if he’d known the outcome of his actions, Asra would’ve continued to keep Lucio’s name from him was almost worse than the fact that he’d kept such a secret in the first place. Maybe part of why Asra had agreed not to tell him Lucio was his soulmate _had_ , in the beginning, in fact been because he genuinely thought Lucio would prove to be nothing but a danger to someone he considered a friend; but, the more Julian turned over in his head what Asra had told him, the more he began to feel as if the magician had _also_ done it with the simple intention of hurting Lucio, even it’d been at Julian’s expense.

That… stung.

After a moment, Julian swallowed and nodded, and he scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms in exhaustion before he decided to continue walking, not deigning to respond. 

“Ilya, please,” the magician called after him sadly.

Asra obviously wasn’t willing to let this go. With a harsh sigh, Julian stopped in his tracks and turned to face him again. “I know he’s not a good man, all right?” he said. “I won’t defend him. But, moral character aside, he’s still my soulmate—I’m _already_ involved with him. Short of his death, there’s no getting _uninvolved_ with him. And I—” He sighed again. “I can’t… I can’t fail him.” With a shake of his head, he added, “I _won’t_.”

Before Asra could reply, he started walking again; soon, he heard the sound of Asra’s footfalls following his, and they traversed the rest of the way in silence.

Within what could have been anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours—whether that was due to that time seemed to pass irregularly in this realm or that time alone with Asra had begun to feel like an excruciatingly long punishment, Julian couldn’t say—they came upon a clearing. The clearing itself was nothing special: it was nothing more than a small circle of dry land in the middle of the marsh, and, despite it seeming to have been set apart from the rest of the swamp, it was still infested with mangrove trees and vines and surrounded by a thick wall of fog.

Instead, what made the clearing impressive was the figure standing in its center. Although their image was made largely hazy by the fog, their outline was visible, as were their beady eyes, both of which were staring pointedly in Asra and Julian’s direction, and the effect was unnerving.

“The ritual _worked_ ,” Asra breathed. Startled, Julian whipped around and saw that Asra had caught up to him, without him having noticed. A bright, proud smile was overtaking the magician’s features, the expression severely out of place in the dreary bog around him, and Asra even allowed himself a light chuckle as he shook his head fondly. “Of course it did. I should’ve known better than to worry…”

No doubt he was swooning over his soulmate’s magical prowess, admiring how flawlessly they’d sent him and Julian to meet the Hanged Man.

“That’s the Hanged Man, then?” Julian asked, pointing at the figure in the distance.

It wasn’t Asra who answered him.

“Since you came all this way,” said the figure behind the cloud of fog, their voice indistinct but still able to be heard, “you may as well ask me yourself.”

Flushing, the doctor ducked his head and stepped through the fog and into the clearing, where he found himself face to face with the real, living version of an image he’d seen in Asra’s tarot deck many times before.

_The Hanged Man._

“Um…” Awkwardly, Julian glanced away, and he cleared his throat. “I didn’t, uh. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not,” the Hanged Man told him. “I invited you.”

“Invited…?” he mumbled to himself, and then his eyes widened in realization. All those strange feelings he’d experienced while reading the book Asra’s soulmate had given him suddenly made sense. “Wait—you—the book! That was you?”

The Hanged Man nodded in confirmation. “You need help to cure the Plague,” they said.

Julian drew in a sharp breath. “Yes!” he answered frantically. Was the Hanged Man about to offer him knowledge of the cure? “ _Yes_! Yes, I—”

The Hanged Man silenced his babbling by holding up a hand. At the sight of it, Julian quieted, but he shifted restlessly where he stood, thrilled at the prospect of getting closer to his end goal.

“First, you have to decide how badly you want to know,” they said. The words were more ominous than he would’ve liked, and the doctor frowned.

“I want to know,” he replied, brows furrowing in confusion. What did the Hanged Man mean, he had to decide how badly he wanted to know? It wasn’t so much a want as it was a need at this point—he _needed_ the cure. He was in dire straits, and the Hanged Man was his last hope before Lucio did something predictably unwise. “Um… I want to know pretty badly. I, uh. I wouldn’t really have come here, otherwise. Sorry.”

“And if you hate the answer?” the other wondered, head tilted. “What will you do, then?”

That wasn’t very promising. “ _Will_ I hate the answer?” he asked tentatively.

The Hanged Man shrugged, feathers ruffling with the movement. “That’s up to you.”

“Well…” What a suspiciously noncommittal response. Julian shot Asra a quick glance—as a magician, Asra knew more about the Major Arcana than he did—but Asra just shook his head. Sighing, he looked back at the Hanged Man and nodded. “I-I guess… I don’t know what I’ll do if I hate it. But, either way, it doesn’t matter—I need to know the cure.” Voice small, he added, “Please.”

The Hanged Man scrutinized him for what felt like an eternity—arms crossed, black eyes narrowed into slits, tapping one of their clawed, talon-like fingers against their arm in thought—before they spoke.

“Fair enough,” the Arcana conceded with another shrug. Pinning Julian in place with their dark gaze, they said, “The only thing that will stop the Plague is the Count of Vesuvia’s death.”

Julian felt his stomach drop.

“What?” he asked on a sharp exhale, the word hushed, a humiliating catch in his throat.

No. No, that wasn’t right. The Hanged Man was lying. 

They _had_ to be.

Asra’s soulmate told him that the Arcana were ones for speaking in riddles—this had to be a trick. After all, what would Lucio’s death solve? As less than skilled as their Count was at governing, at least half of the population of Vesuvia adored him anyway; they’d be crushed to learn of his demise. Lucio was a spoiled, obnoxious brat, yes, but he'd always viewed himself as a warrior at heart, and he’d managed to convince his subjects of the same to the point that nearly everyone thought him untouchable. Losing its leader—an icon of strength and invulnerability—would do nothing but throw an already despairing city further into turmoil.

Lucio’s death would _not_ be just another drop in the bucket of victims of the Plague—it’d be enough to strip any dream of recovery from Vesuvia’s citizens altogether. If even _Count Lucio_ succumbed to his illness, then what hope did its other victims have?

And that was to say nothing of how Lucio’s death would affect Julian personally.

“That’s not possible,” the doctor argued. “How could one person _dying_ from the Plague _cure_ the Plague?”

The Hanged Man laughed. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” they asked. “What do you do with your patients?”

“Treat the symptoms, but address the source,” Julian recited, as if he were yet again a gangly teenager and Nazali was quizzing him. He frowned at the realization. “Wait, _Lucio_ is the source of the Plague? That doesn’t…” _That doesn’t make sense._

How could _Lucio_ be the source when the man was dying from the Plague himself?

Next to him, Asra sucked in a short breath.

“Ilya,” said the magician, “check your mark.”

Hands trembling, Julian reached down and slowly peeled the leather from his skin. The closer he got to removing completely the glove that concealed his mark, the more his heart began to pound, blood rushing in his ears and the edges of his vision going fuzzy.

On his wrist remained the name _Montag_ , but from the letters that formed it emanated a black miasma, its aura something foul and decayed.

“Ilya…” Asra murmured, and he looked up at the doctor with such pity and grief in his gaze that he had to glance away. “Lucio’s soul is corrupted… he’s made deals with the Devil and their demons.”

The worst part, the doctor supposed, was the sheer credibility of Asra’s statement. Although he’d discovered that Asra had no qualms when it came to withholding the truth, Julian still believed the other instantly—no protest or words in Lucio’s defense rose to his lips, nor did they spring to mind at all. Throat closing, he could do no more than nod mutely in resignation. In his heart, Julian knew what Asra had said was true, no matter how much he wished it wasn’t.

Lucio was impulsive and selfish, and trading the purity of his soul to the Devil in order to get what he wanted absolutely seemed like something he’d do. Julian had always been able to see Lucio’s greed for the destructive force it was, but he never would have guessed that it was _his soulmate_ who’d caused the Plague and who’d brought to Vesuvia devastation of impossible magnitude.

All these years of watching friends and strangers alike deteriorate while he stood there helplessly, all the condolences he’d had to deliver to families and all the wills he’d drafted for patients and all the dead colleagues whose bodies he’d been ordered to dispose of in the cistern… 

Everything was _Lucio’s_ fault.

But—Lucio wouldn’t have explicitly wished the Plague into existence, would he? As self-centered as he was, he still mourned the loss of droves of his subjects, even if it’d taken him falling ill to the Plague himself to inspire any sympathy and even if he mourned them for the wrong reasons. He’d lamented many times before that their deaths meant less people at his parties and less people cheering his name at the Coliseum; but, for Lucio, who hadn’t the first clue how to express any sentiment that wasn’t about himself, that was as good as outright grieving. Beyond that, he was more the type to prefer killing others with his own hands, which shouldn’t have been a point in his favor but was.

If Lucio was the source of the Plague and had made deals with demons and the Devil, then he still had a role in Vesuvia’s decline and nothing he could do would ever be able to absolve him of that, but there had to be something more at play.

 _Lucio_ , Julian thought, closing his eyes, _what have you_ **_done_** _?_

“Ah,” the Hanged Man drawled. They took his wrist in hand and ran a pointed claw over the mark. “As I suspected.”

Julian tore his wrist out of their grip and rushed to replace his glove, but the Hanged Man stopped him with a hand on his forearm.

“What will you do?” they asked. “You cannot hide from this forever. Indecision, introspection, inaction—they will not serve you for much longer. Will you let him die?”

Therein laid the problem: Lucio had trusted the Devil and their demons, but, if he _hadn’t_ intended for the Plague to wreak the havoc that it was now, then what did that prove other than his own self-seeking foolishness? Did it mean Lucio _deserved_ to _die_? And who was Julian to decide that, when he’d unquestioningly followed Valdemar’s orders and had done unspeakable things in the name of _research_ and _the greater good_? He wasn’t a good man, either.

His justifications for not immediately condemning Lucio were flimsy at best, but they were all Julian had.

“I… I _can’t_ ,” he confessed, choked.

He’d failed Lucio before, and he’d sworn to the both of them that he wouldn’t fail him again; he’d made enough mistakes and had enough regrets in his life that he refused to allow his soulmate to become one of them. Plus, he _wanted_ Lucio, and Lucio wanted _him_. They didn’t love each other, but the possibility was there, even though they’d wronged each other so many times. He desperately wanted to believe they had a chance at finding happiness together—a simple _chance_ was more than he’d thought he’d ever find.

Lucio had given him _hope_ for the future, and that was enough to push Julian to pursue it.

“I can’t let him die,” he said, meeting the Hanged Man’s eyes. “I can’t. What do I do?”

“ _Ilya_ ,” Asra gasped, but the Arcana cut him off with a look. Grudgingly, the magician demurred, although Julian could feel the weight of his disapproving, betrayed gaze.

Once Asra had settled, the Hanged Man turned back to him. “A mark for a mark,” they proposed. “Does that sound fair?”

Julian’s brows knit together. “I don’t understand.”

“Your mark,” clarified the Hanged Man, tapping their claws against where _Montag_ rested on his wrist, “for one of mine.”

“You… want my mark?” They nodded. “Why?”

“It’s a reasonable trade,” they said, and, with that, they explained it no further. “Do you accept my price?”

“But…” He glanced down at his wrist, grimacing at the tendrils of black, sickening smoke that curled upwards from the letters.

When Lilinka had taught him how to read, the first thing he’d done had been to decipher his wrist for himself. He’d spent hours reading his soulmate’s name aloud, testing different pronunciations and gauging if they’d felt right—he even had memories of drunkenly begging tavern goers to listen to his various attempts at saying _Montag_ and asking them if they’d known anyone with that name. He’d only ever gotten something besides a _no_ one time, but it’d been because the person he’d badgered into talking to him had simply paled and fled, which, in hindsight, he should’ve taken as a sign.

It’d been his mark that’d helped him stay strong for his little sister after their family had died; he’d used it to comfort Portia whenever she’d woken up sobbing for their parents, showing her the thick, black letters—not yet a faded gray the way those of Mazelinka’s mark had eventually turned—and reassuring her that they still had family out there somewhere. On the occasions that alone hadn’t worked to calm her down, he’d retrieved the mirrors needed to show Portia her own mark and had held his wrist up to the back of her neck, putting the names of their soulmates side by side for her to see. Sometimes he’d even made up stories about the names’ owners, all of them ridiculous and fantastical, ones that’d had her tears drying up as she’d dissolved into fits of giggles and teased him.

The amount of nights he’d lain in his bed in the dark and had stared at his soulmate’s name, thankful for their existence, until he’d fallen asleep with an exhausted, wet-cheeked Portia clinging to him was too high to count.

Despite all the trouble that having _Montag_ and not _Lucio_ on his wrist had caused, as well as the fact that it now served as a reminder that Lucio had dealt with the Devil, Julian would still be sad to see his mark go—but, if it came down to keeping Lucio’s old name on his skin or getting the opportunity to save Lucio’s life, then the choice was easy.

His soulmate hadn’t been _Montag_ for a long time, anyway, no matter what his wrist said.

“If I _were_ to agree,” Julian said slowly, “what would your mark do, exactly?”

The Hanged Man crossed their arms. “What would you expect it to do?” they asked.

“Could it cure the Plague without killing Lucio?”

As he’d guessed, the Arcana shook their head. “That would require more than you can offer,” they explained. _Of course it can’t be so simple_ , he sighed. He frowned and looked at his mark, wondering what more the Hanged Man could possibly want, and, when he lifted his head back up, he found them smiling at him as much as someone with a beak _could_ smile. “Think it through,” they advised him.

 _Right_. He assumed the Hanged Man had told him all they could, then, since they’d been so helpful so far. Maybe the Major Arcana were forbidden from influencing humans’ decision, and _he_ had to be the one to outline the specifics of their deal? A quick glance at Asra showed him that the magician was glaring at him, clearly aghast that he was even _entertaining_ the idea of making a deal with the Hanged Man for Lucio’s sake, and Julian thought better of asking him.

He chewed on his bottom lip as a solution gradually began to form in his mind. If the Hanged Man was unable to cure the Plague without needing Lucio’s death, then, to end the Plague entirely, Lucio still had to die. Alongside that came an obvious follow-up question: Lucio had to die, but did he have to _stay_ dead?

Even within the privacy of his own thoughts, it sounded ridiculous, but, if there were any other way around Lucio’s permanent death, Julian knew he wasn’t going to come up with it any time soon.

“So…” he said to the Hanged Man. Interested, they leaned forward, waiting for him to finish, and he had to swallow back the creeping feeling of anxiety before he could continue. “Could it let me heal people?”

“Heal people?” they repeated.

“Heal people,” he confirmed with a nod. “From, well… uh, _anything_?”

The Hanged Man brought a hand up to their chin, scratching idly at the spot below their beak as they considered his question. Finally, after a tense moment of silence, they dropped their hand and nodded, and they held out the palm of their other hand expectantly.

“Very clever, Doctor,” they said, eyes twinkling with mischief. “That’s doable. I accept.” They wiggled the fingers of the hand they had extended, though their talons made the action more menacing than they’d probably meant it to be. “Your mark, then?”

Upon hearing the Hanged Man’s agreement, Julian felt more optimistic than he had in days, since Asra’s soulmate had given him the book. Although the moment he placed his wrist in their grip was bittersweet, he wouldn’t have been able to wipe the relieved smile from his face even if he’d tried—he was surrendering his mark, knowingly trading the physical proof of his soul’s bond with Lucio’s for something else, but wasn’t it worth it, if it meant he had a chance to prevent Lucio’s soul from fully fading away? What good would his mark do him if he lost the person on the other end of it, anyway? 

He didn’t need _Montag_ —he needed _Lucio_.

The Hanged Man traced the point of their thumb over the letters that formed his mark, the thick, bold lines on his wrist disappearing in the wake of their touch. As his mark vanished under the Hanged Man’s talon, there also flared to life the piercing sensation of something _stinging_ on his throat, the feeling of it not unlike pinpricks from a needle. He didn’t dare look away from his wrist, but he thought he heard the sound of Asra inhaling shortly, probably shocked at the sight of whatever had appeared in the hollow of Julian’s neck.

Once they were satisfied with their work, the Hanged Man took a step back, letting go of the doctor’s wrist, and they crossed their arms again.

“Best of luck,” they said. It was only with serious effort that Julian managed to tear his gaze from his now bare wrist, and, as the Hanged Man spoke, he hurriedly slid back on his glove, too rattled by the blank, _empty_ space on his skin. “I’ve given you all the help I can.”

“Thank you,” Julian told them. “Really, I…” He shook his head. The Hanged Man had given him the potential to end the Plague _and_ to save his soulmate—there was no way he’d ever be able to repay that. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don't thank me just yet.” They winked, and he felt obliged to laugh along uncomfortably. “Goodbye, Doctor.”

“Goodbye,” Asra answered, his tone annoyed and almost snappish, and then he snatched Julian’s arm and tugged on the thread connecting him to his soulmate before the doctor could say his own farewell.

* * *

The Hanged Man’s realm vanished before his eyes within seconds. The gray, misty marshland that spanned the raven-headed Arcana’s home transformed back into the glittering cosmos that’d greeted him at the beginning of the ritual: the mangrove trees surrounding him on all sides twisted and rippled, their leaves shattering into stars and their branches warping into streaks of color against a dark sky, and the wet soil beneath his feet disintegrated into sand, the bright grains building themselves into an island that seemed to sparkle with diamonds. Now that he’d met the Hanged Man and had received their help, he finally felt as if he could _breathe_ again, and it was easier for him to appreciate this expanse of unending twilight and the comforting vacuum of silence that came with it. As comets burst above his head and gently rained down shards of light, an aurora and its infinite streams of purples and pinks and blues flowed like a river around him, carrying in its tide stars both large and small. 

Smiling, Julian reached out to brush his fingertips along one of the stars that floated past him, but, before his hand could even so much as graze it, he found himself being dragged back into consciousness with a graceless splutter.

“ _Asra_!” scolded a voice from his right. It sounded like Asra’s soulmate. One of their hands slipped underneath Julian’s back and helped him lift himself from where he’d been lying sprawled against the stone floor of his office while the other dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. “Sorry, Julian.”

Gratefully, Julian pushed aside their touch and opened his eyes, the stars of the fantastical galaxy winking out of existence only to be replaced with the sight of Asra and his soulmate watching him, the former with a brow raised and the latter with concern. Dangling from Asra’s grip was one of the bowls his soulmate had filled with water and had used for the spell, its contents now emptied onto the Julian’s front, the droplets the magician’s partner hadn’t wiped away sliding down his cheeks.

Well, at least that explained the rude awakening—Asra had dumped a bowl of water over his head.

“Are you okay?” Asra’s soulmate asked, probably anticipating the argument that was about to ensue and attempting to prevent it by pulling Julian’s attention away from Asra and to themselves. Touch light, they tucked a damp piece of hair behind the doctor’s ear and used their magic to dry the strands before they lowered their eyes and inspected the line of his throat, their gaze focused on the spot where he’d felt a sharp sting as the Hanged Man had taken his mark. “What happened?”

It was Asra who spoke first, his tone dripping with reproach. “He made a deal with the Hanged Man,” the magician answered flatly, and he shook his head. A fierce, scathing condemnation burned in his glare, the sheer heat of it making Julian swallow guiltily and glance down at the floor.

The shopkeeper sighed. “Julian…” they said, face falling, disappointment weighing down the line of their shoulders.

He wasn’t ashamed of the decision he’d made—not when it meant that Lucio might have another chance at life, that he and Lucio might have a chance at life _together_ —but the pity and dismay in the downward twist of their lips smarted, especially since he’d thought that, of all people, Asra’s partner would understand. So far, they’d offered him nothing but an outpouring of support; they’d been the one to give him the book of rituals, and they’d been the one to perform the spell that’d led him to the Hanged Man. They’d even witnessed firsthand the toll his desperate search for the cure had taken on him, having seen him almost break down and then struggle to regain composure as he’d sat at their table with a cup of coffee. Surely they’d known that, if he were to be sent to meet the Hanged Man, he’d be tempted to make a deal—they _must_ have known, yet they’d agreed to go through with the spell, anyway. Did they _truly_ believe it to be so wrong of him to have traded with one of the Major Arcana? 

And were they really so blissfully unaware of the fact that, considering the depths of Asra’s devotion to them, their own soulmate would have done the same for them, if not worse?

“I had to,” Julian told them quietly. Even if he’d gone into the Hanged Man’s realm knowing that Asra’s soulmate would disapprove of him accepting from the Arcana in question a trade, he wouldn’t have changed his mind. Nor was he going to apologize—he’d done only what was necessary for the opportunity to save his soulmate, and he’d do it again. While he regretted that he’d potentially lost the respect of someone whose friendship he’d come to treasure in such a short amount of time, he wasn’t sorry in the least.

After a few tense seconds, Asra’s soulmate sat back with a nod and sighed in resignation, lifting a hand to Julian’s shoulder and gripping tightly. “So… you’ve learned the cure for the Plague?” they guessed. At Julian’s hum of an affirmative, they gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze before letting their hand drop. The smile with which they graced him was visibly forced, but he was thankful for their effort nonetheless. “Well… all right. You don’t have to tell me anything more. I’m glad the ritual worked.”

Expression dark, Asra opened his mouth, presumably to force the issue, but he reluctantly settled as his soulmate turned to look at him and laid their palm over the mark on his chest, their eyes begging him to refrain. Once he’d closed his mouth again, they pressed a kiss to his cheek, lips lingering against his skin.

“If it were me,” they whispered, and Asra shuddered, his eyes slipping shut. The open warmth with which his partner regarded him was so tender and intimate, to the point that Julian suddenly felt as if he were intruding even though they were in _his_ office. Although he looked away, wanting to give them the illusion of privacy, he still couldn’t help but listen carefully. “If I were dying, wouldn’t you do anything to save me?”

“That’s different,” Asra said. “You’re not…” His voice trailed off, but it was fairly obvious what he’d been about to say.

Jaw clenching, Julian glanced down at his hands, where he found himself digging his fingers into palms in an effort to stay quiet, not wanting to interrupt. He understood Asra’s animosity towards Lucio, as well as the resentment a good portion of his own city secretly bore towards him too. The list of Lucio’s misdeeds was endless, and even the comparatively _minor_ ones, such as the structural disrepair into which he’d let certain districts fall, were deplorable. More than that, they were worthy of retribution even when taken into consideration individually instead of together. Fate may have thrown them together, but Julian could still recognize that Lucio being hated by others was just a natural consequence of his actions. He wasn’t so far gone as to think that the man was undeserving of any ill will.

Despite that, he still couldn’t believe that Asra would so vehemently begrudge him the chance to keep his soulmate from dying. What did it _matter_ to Asra that Julian had made a deal with the Hanged Man for Lucio’s sake? So long as the Plague was cured, Lucio living—well, not dying permanently—wouldn’t affect Asra any more than it would anyone else under the Count’s rule. With the Plague cured, Asra would be able to return to his idyllic life with his soulmate and their shop. Whether Lucio was dead or Lucio was alive, he’d still be free of him entirely.

Asra just wanted to see Lucio dead, then, Julian’s feelings be damned. 

Julian wondered if Asra had _ever_ cared about their friendship more than he’d despised Lucio; all things considered, it wasn’t too likely.

“I hate Lucio, too,” Asra’s soulmate replied, not bothering to conceal their own contempt, and the doctor suppressed a wince, “but what happens to him isn’t our decision.” 

In response, Asra merely sighed and said nothing. His partner watched him for some time, contemplative and quiet and lips pursed in worry, and then they turned to address their unwilling audience.

“Julian.” Startled, Julian glanced up at the sound of Asra’s partner calling his name. They were still huddled close to Asra, but, when they spoke, they were addressing him. “Can we…?” Instead of voicing the question entirely, they flicked a quick, meaningful look at the door.

Rather than dawdle and continue to eavesdrop on a conversation that’d suddenly turned into something very personal and didn’t involve him at all, Julian took the dismissal for what it was and picked himself up off the floor, dusting off his pants as he stood.

“Sure,” he answered, hoping he didn’t sound _too_ happy at having been granted the perfect excuse to escape Asra’s unwanted company. If the magicians wanted to be alone, then he was more than happy to leave. In fact, he’d been wanting to leave for the past few seconds or so, anyway—eavesdropping on them had lost its charm the moment Asra had spoken—but, because there hadn’t been a way to go about it without disturbing his office’s other occupants, he’d been forced to sit there awkwardly. “Take all the time you like.”

Although he shut the door behind him as he left his office, he still heard hushed words of reassurance from Asra’s soulmate—ones that had been meant for Asra and Asra alone—before he could walk away and start for the lift.

“This… isn’t _all_ about Julian, is it?” They paused. “It’s about what I’d think of you if you were to do the same?” There was an unintelligible murmur in response, the volume of it too soft to make out from outside of the office, and then Asra’s partner went on. “Oh, Asra… no matter the bargain you struck or the deal you took, I’d still love you with all my heart.”

Face burning in embarrassment at having accidentally eavesdropped, Julian hurried towards the elevator, relieved to fold his frame into the too small cage and feel the metal floor rattle dangerously under his feet as the elevator began to ascend. The discordant, unsettling clanking of the cage rebounded off the stone walls, every clink of the chains tugging the elevator upwards rattling with a metallic screech, and the jumble of noise was only just loud enough to drown out his mind playing on repeat the words of Asra’s soulmate. They deserved to have the secrecy they kept with their own soulmate respected, trying to erase from his memories what they’d said to Asra was the least he could do.

At least fleeing his office while the magicians had an impromptu heart-to-heart gave Julian the motivation he needed in order to go confront Lucio. The elation that’d come with discovering a potential way both to cure the Plague _and_ to save his soulmate had begun abating in the face of Asra’s obvious displeasure, and now it was further suffocating under the weight of the realization that he somehow had to convince Lucio to let himself succumb to his illness.

 _Lucio_ , who had stubbornly chosen a long, miserable, pain-filled existence with the Plague steadily chipping away at him over simply allowing the disease to take him and end his suffering.

Even if he were to lead with the fact that, if he’d understood the Hanged Man correctly and their mark did as he expected, Lucio wouldn’t die for good, Julian still wasn’t able to imagine the discussion going anything but poorly: with just how desperate for a cure Lucio had become in recent memory, it seemed as if the Count didn’t so much have a desire to live as he did a visceral fear of dying. Without knowing _why_ , it was probably going to be impossible to convince him to go along with a plan that required his death.

Julian took the indirect route to the Count’s chambers, dawdling in front of every painting and pretending to inspect the bold colors and brush strokes to give himself time to calm his nerves. How was he supposed to broach the topic without automatically earning Lucio’s ire? His usual tricks for delivering bad news definitely were _not_ options: Lucio had never enjoyed humor that wasn’t at someone else’s expense but was instead at his own, so that was out of the question, and there was a fifty-fifty chance that Lucio would bristle at any attempt at sympathy and assume it to be pity, so that wouldn’t work, either.

Of _course_ he’d gotten the most difficult man in existence as his soulmate. Yes, Julian was thankful to have him, but sometimes dealing with Lucio seemed like some kind of divine punishment. He would’ve felt bad at that thought, were he not certain that Lucio occasionally felt the same way about dealing with _him_ , too.

By the time he reached the doors to the Count’s chambers, he was still no closer to figuring out a way to bring up the subject that wouldn’t end in Lucio strangling him than he’d been earlier. Very rarely was Julian in touch with his sense of self-preservation to this extent, but, soulmates or not, he had a feeling that Lucio’s tolerance for him had to have a hard limit somewhere. Asking the man to die was probably as good a step over that line as any, no matter how temporary a death it’d be.

Swallowing back his anxiety, Julian squared his shoulders and tugged at the hem of his coat, straightening it and smoothing out the creases, trying and failing to appear less like a panicked mess, and raised a hand to rap his knuckles against Lucio’s door. Almost immediately, his knock was met by loud barking as well as the racket of nails scratching against the other side, and, soon enough, the door creaked and swung back far enough to allow enough space for two white snouts to emerge, revealing Lucio’s beloved hounds. Although they were both trying to nudge the heavy door open, each one was determined to do it by themselves—Melchior kept turning to snap at Mercedes for getting in his way, while Mercedes steadfastly ignored him and continued to do her best to shove him aside or push him behind her. With a fond smile, Julian watched them fight for a bit before he finally relented and stepped forward to finish opening the door for them, corralling them back into the room as he went.

His smile widened as the dogs rushed him as soon as he’d turned back around from closing the door, Mercedes using her sharp teeth to yank on the fabric of his pants and Melchior pawing at him insistently. “Hey, you two,” he said, crouching to greet them properly as they were demanding.

It didn’t occur to him that something was wrong until he reached out to pet them. 

Whining, his voice frightened and high-pitched and his ears flat against his head, Melchior dodged the hand Julian had been about to set on his neck and instead buried his face in the doctor’s chest at the same time that Mercedes, her tail between her legs, sidled up underneath Julian’s outstretched arm, all but knocking him to the floor as she pressed herself as close as possible and curled into his side. 

As they settled against him, Julian noticed that they were both trembling. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, concerned, sliding his hand under Melchior’s chin and attempting to lift the dog’s head, but, despite having quieted, Melchior refused to budge. Giving up, he looked to Mercedes next, and, unlike Melchior, she decided to meet his eyes. Even when she’d been bitten by a snake in the gardens, she hadn’t become as distressed as she was right now—though, to be fair, she _had_ seemed to know that it was her own fault that the snake had bitten her, considering she’d spent the past hour harassing it. She’d also subsequently killed the snake in retaliation and then had presented its mangled, slobbery corpse to Julian as a gift, tongue lolling out of her mouth as she’d proudly dropped it onto his shoe, but that was neither here nor there. “Are you okay?”

Mercedes had nothing to offer but a feeble whimper, her red eyes wide and scared, and Melchior echoed her with his own soft, mournful howl, after which he burrowed even further into Julian’s front. Worry mounting with each second that passed that didn’t see the dogs calming down, Julian lowered himself onto the ground fully and hauled them in for a tight hug. 

Not _once_ in the time that he’d known them had he seen the Count’s hounds like this. As the Palace’s resident troublemakers, they regularly terrorized Vesuvia’s denizens both with Lucio’s encouragement as well as for their own entertainment, and the only instances during which they made so much as the _slightest_ effort towards acting like anything other than their typical cheeky selves were when they found themselves being reprimanded; and, even in _those_ moments, they always appeared to be falsely contrite at most. Much like their owner, they hadn’t yet mastered the art of convincingly affecting sincerity when it came to emotions they weren’t feeling. 

For Mercedes and Melchior to be behaving like this, something must have genuinely shaken them, but what had it been? Icy terror flooded Julian's veins as he realized the obvious answer.

_Is Lucio…?_

Thankfully, he hadn’t been able to finish the thought before Lucio himself interrupted it.

“Ignore them,” came the Count’s voice, the tone harsh and disinterested. The sound of it made Julian look up, startled, but whatever he’d been about to say caught in his throat. 

In front of him stood Lucio, his back straight rather than hunched and, although his health had taken a recent turn for the worse, he looked remarkably unrumpled. It was almost as if the other man had appeared out of thin air, when just seconds beforehand Julian could have sworn the room had been empty except for the dogs and himself.

More importantly, how long had Lucio been watching his dogs cry without intervening? That was disturbingly unlike him.

“I never had them properly disciplined, despite my better judgment,” Lucio added, shooting the dogs a cold glare. Shocking Julian, Mercedes jerked herself out of the doctor’s hold in order to turn and _growl_ at her owner, her hackles raised, but she demurred once Lucio silenced her with no more than a raised brow. Satisfied, Lucio smirked—an _actual_ smirk and not the cheap, nervous imitation of one that he usually managed—and the sight of it on his face was beyond unpleasant. “You mustn’t indulge them, Julian.”

 _… Julian?_  

Further unsettled by the glaring omission of Lucio’s favorite nickname for him, the doctor frowned. Had Lucio _ever_ called him anything besides _Jules_? If he had, Julian didn’t remember when.

Before speaking, he glanced down at Mercedes, but she’d slid away from him to lie down on the floor and had covered her face with her paws, her breath hitching with every inhale. While neither Mercedes nor Melchior took the rare punishment from their owner well, they always managed to bounce back promptly and then stare up at Lucio with twin looks of exaggerated remorse until he caved and waved off whatever had irritated him enough that it’d pushed him to scold them. It was for that reason exactly that Lucio had taken to housing his favorite shoes on high shelves above their reach: whenever they got in trouble with him, they always managed to guilt-trip him to the point that _he’d_ apologize to _them_. As far as Julian knew, they’d never become truly _upset_ over any censure from the Count, yet there Mercedes laid, sniffling miserably.

And, totally unmoved by her crying, Lucio continued to do nothing but stand there and watch her, amusement playing on his lips.

 _What the hell is wrong with him,_ Julian thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d had such a thought about Lucio, but it _was_ the first time he’d thought it so strongly.

“You…” Hesitant, Julian paused, having to force back the serious, unkind words that were threatening to spill out of his mouth in Mercedes’s defense. “You know you hurt her feelings, right?”

Lucio shrugged. “She’s fine,” he replied, not so much as a single ounce of usual his affection for his precious pets in his voice. “Her cries are meant only to manipulate me, I assure you. She has done this before.”

He wasn’t wrong, but… Was he _seriously_ unable to recognize just how deeply, honestly hurt one of his dear hounds was feeling? Mercedes’s anguished whines were definitely real.

“Are you kidding?” Julian asked, incredulous. “No, Lucio, you—” He shook his head. “You upset her.”

“She is ill-trained and spoiled. Of course she will react poorly to any attempt to control her,” Lucio answered, detached, but he stepped towards Mercedes and held out a hand to her regardless of his words. “However, if apologizing to her would please you…”

“Please _me_?” Julian repeated. Lucio was offering to consider his dog's feelings purely because the man thought it would please _him_? He was growing angry, now—he barred access to Mercedes by holding up his arm in front of her body, hoping to prevent Lucio from touching her. “Lucio, _what_ is your problem?”

As Julian held up his arm, Lucio stopped short and scowled. “You are expecting me to console this rotten creature, to begin with,” he snarled, drawing his hand back.

At Lucio’s cruel remark, Julian stiffened. No, no, that wasn’t right—there was no way it’d been _Lucio_ who’d said that. Lucio didn’t exactly have a wealth of redeeming qualities but, if there was one thing for which Julian had always admired the Count, it was his dedication to and unconditional love for his pets.

That… _thing_ wasn’t his soulmate.

“You’re not Lucio,” Julian said flatly.

The fraud wearing his soulmate’s face proceeded to bark out a hoarse laugh, and Lucio’s handsome features twisted into something painfully inhuman with the action. “A thoughtful compliment.” They flashed a grin—bearing a set of pointed, knife-edged teeth that resembled not Lucio’s but a beast’s—but the expression soon fell, replaced by a moue of displeasure that accompanied a long-suffering sigh. “Was my deception so obvious?”

When Julian simply glared and refused to respond, they rolled their eyes, unimpressed, and impatiently raised Lucio’s flesh hand.

With a snap of manicured fingers that were not their own, the creature disappeared in a plume of black smoke, and Lucio’s form was swiftly replaced by a figure Julian unfortunately recognized from Asra’s tarot deck.

“Hello, Doctor,” greeted the Devil, eyes crinkling at the corners as a malicious, calculating smile spread across their face. “Finally we meet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i know it may not seem like it, but [i do actually really like asra](https://runescape-online.tumblr.com/post/186560905504/me-trying-and-failing-to-convince-my-friends-to). (believe it or not he’s my fave of the love interests.) it’s just, well, if plague era asra and julian aren’t in the middle of watching their dysfunctional friendship crash and burn bc of their shit communication skills then is it really them??? (also, re: asra hating lucio, yeah it’s pretty blatantly stated in canon that he really fucking hates lucio, but even beyond that i find it kinda telling that his is the only route in which lucio straight up fucking dies. not trying to start discourse here but like, in nadia’s and julian’s routes my man just gets banished from vesuvia, but asra’s? nope, bro gets dragged into the abyss by a bunch of demons while asra and mc watch. i mean, yeah, play stupid games win stupid prizes, but. still. maybe it’s just me?)
> 
> i promise the next chapter won't take as long!!!! we're SO close to the end. also don't worry everything will be acknowledged and at least kind of resolved eventually
> 
> also also, as for the pronouns for the arcana, i 100% forgot what they are in canon so i just decided to use "they" bc i mean like, they're kinda genderless magical beings right? like ok it's the hanged MAN and the high PRIESTESS but.....i mean.........


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg, 100+ kudos?? ilysm, every single one of you
> 
> so here's the deal: i was writing this chapter and it hit like 8k+ without seeming like it was gonna end any time soon, so im splitting it into two and posting the first half now. 🙃🙃 still debating whether or not to extend the chapter count to 11 for an epilogue or to make the epilogue like another entry in the collection, but either way the next chapter IS going to be the end of the main story and wrap up everything. thx for sticking with me!!! again, ily all

The Devil wasn’t at all how Julian had imagined them. 

Considering the alarming frequency with which the Devil appeared when Asra read Lucio’s cards during their usual get-togethers in the Count’s chambers, Julian had become more than familiar with Asra’s design for the Devil, but the figure before him was a far cry from their depiction in the magician’s personal tarot deck. Although they were very clearly a goat of the anthropomorphic variety, one much the same as the creature on the face of their card, that was where the resemblance both began and ended: there were no heavy chains in their grasp, nor were there serpents coiled around their torso; they were clothed, albeit only with a red scarf and a black and golden stole; and their red eyes held not the promise of turmoil and tragedy but an idle curiosity. They looked Julian over slowly, scrutinizing him from head to toe, and, once they’d finished their assessment, they smiled, the tilt of it amiable and non-threatening.

Julian was immediately wary.

“So _suspicious_ , Doctor,” the Devil chided, a light laugh shaking their shoulders. They would have sounded teasing, had their natural predisposition towards condescension not infected their tone. “Please, there’s no need for such a lack of trust between us. I simply want to talk, nothing more. You have nothing to fear.”

Nothing to fear? From someone called _the Devil_? He knew that statement to be blatantly false, but it was especially so in light of the Count’s absence from his own chambers despite the servants having told Julian that Lucio had been refusing to leave his bed as of late.

He didn’t know how the truth behind their relationship had become common knowledge, but, at this point, the fact that he and Lucio were soulmates was the Palace’s worst kept secret, at least among those servants who participated in gossip; and, as uncomfortable as he felt at the idea that others were fully aware of something he’d have preferred to remain private, he was almost strangely grateful that it’d gotten out, since it meant that the Palace staff had been taking great pains to keep him updated on Lucio’s health, even more so than before. Though they’d done the same when they’d been under the impression that Julian was just another Palace doctor, something about him being the Count’s _soulmate_ had inspired in them a new dedication to the task—well, that _and_ the urge to shoot him pitying glances, but those were easy enough to ignore. Some servants had even begun to go so far as braving the dungeons’ entrance in order to speak to him about Lucio, asking him to meet them at the gate in front of the lift rather than simply sending him a missive and leaving it at that. 

From the moment Lucio had confronted him in his office until now, those meetings with the servants had been the only occasions in which he’d actually looked away from the book Asra’s partner’s had given to him. The servants hadn’t always had something particularly important to say—as much as Julian appreciated any news about his soulmate, being notified every time Lucio did as little as sneeze wasn’t exactly useful—but the last thing they’d shared had truly been worrying. According to them, Lucio, after having returned from his brief trip to the dungeons to see Julian, hadn’t moved from his bed once; on its own, that already made Julian concerned, but apparently he’d also banned anyone besides his pets from approaching him, including Asra and even his own wife.

In contrast to what the servants had told him, however, the Count’s bed was currently empty, and, because Lucio had disallowed visitors, there was likely no one who knew of his whereabouts. 

All of that, along with the Devil’s presence, promised nothing good.

Something must have happened to him.

Ignoring the Devil’s insincere attempt at a show of goodwill, Julian asked seriously, “What did you do to Lucio.”

In response, the Devil rolled their eyes, their facade of friendliness crumbling just the slightest bit. “ _I_ ,” they answered, drawing the word out pointedly, “did nothing.” They shrugged, the motion fluid and carefree. “If you’re looking for the person at fault for him not being here, might I suggest that you direct your focus inward?”

It took a second for him to process the Devil’s words, but, when he did, he had to suppress a flinch at the accusation. _Had_ Lucio finally succumbed to the Plague, then? Was Julian too late to help him? The Hanged Man hadn’t said that there was a time limit on attempting to pull back Lucio from the brink of a more permanent death, but Julian guessed that there was one, anyway. Depending on how long ago Lucio had died, it was possible the Count was already too far gone to save.

“Perhaps I misspoke,” the Devil interrupted, holding up a hand. At the sound of their voice, Julian’s fatalistic thoughts came to a screeching halt, and he stared at them, desperate for any reassurance that Lucio was still alive. Probably amused at how easily they’d gotten him on tenterhooks, the Devil felt charitable enough to tell him, “He is not dead, Doctor, I assure you.” They offered him a grin, visibly pleased with themselves for some unfathomable reason, and added, “Your precious Lucio has not yet been put out to pasture.”

Maybe it was foolish to take the Devil at their word, but Julian had reached his wits’ end. He was tired—between traveling to another realm entirely and sacrificing his mark to save a soulmate who was nowhere to be found, he’d hardly had a chance to breathe, and he wasn’t about to antagonize the most dangerous of the major Arcana by arguing with them. Besides, hadn’t Asra’s soulmate once mentioned that the Arcana were incapable of lying? If the Devil said Lucio wasn’t dead, then Lucio wasn’t dead.

But… _not dead_ did not necessarily mean _safe_ , unfortunately. If Asra’s soulmate had indeed been correct, then, _yes_ , the Arcana could not lie, but was there any such restriction against withholding the entire truth? When the Devil merely continued to stand there, examining their claws in contemplative silence instead of elaborating on just where, exactly, it was that Lucio had gone if it hadn’t been to the afterlife, whatever relief Julian had been starting to feel at receiving confirmation that his soulmate still lived swiftly vanished.

“Where is he?” he pressed. “If he’s not dead?”

The Devil shrugged again, their disinterest in the subject becoming palpable. “He has retreated elsewhere.” 

At their detached non-answer, Julian clenched his jaw, his every sense suddenly overwhelmed with frustration, the sting of it hot and bitter and threatening to choke him. Just as he’d been about to demand clarification, the Devil’s expression abruptly shifted back into one of thinly veiled glee: a smirk split their lips, their sharp teeth glimmering menacingly, and, barely looking away from where they were inspecting the points of their claws, they flicked a brief, sidelong glance at him, their eyes flashing with a deep, wicked pleasure.

Evidently delighted with whatever they saw in the doctor’s face, their grin widened. 

“In fact, he was hoping to avoid _you_ , I believe,” the Devil said.

Julian’s mouth clicked shut. 

 _Lucio wouldn’t…_  

He swallowed, throat dry, and he tightened his fingers’ grip on Melchior’s fur, clutching handfuls of the dog’s soft, white hair. Numb as he was from Devil’s revelation, he didn’t notice that Mercedes had unfurled from her spot on the floor and had wriggled her way under his arm to join Melchior until she whined and leaned up to lick his cheek, but the rough drag of her tongue against his skin still failed to rouse him completely from the staggering shock.

_Lucio would never…_

Somehow, the Devil was able to divine the direction his mental protests had taken. Voice sickeningly sweet and dripping with false compassion, they reminded him, “This isn’t the first time he’s done so, is it, Doctor?” 

They were obviously mocking him, their mask of sympathy poorly affected and their attitude overall patronizing, but they weren’t _wrong_ , weren’t they? This _wasn’t_ the first time Lucio had avoided him.

“But…” Too stunned to string together a coherent thought, he stared up at the Devil, eyes wide, and simply asked, “Why?”

Stroking their chin in thought, the motion exaggerated, they let out an idle hum as they came to a decision. Rather than provide a verbal answer, they clapped, the sound of their hands coming together reminiscent of crackling thunder and loud enough to make Lucio’s dogs recoil in distress; as they spread their hands apart once more, golden light shimmered between their palms, shapeless and mesmerizing. Soon, the brilliant haze of sparkles began to coalesce, the various bright flickers of substance fusing together and taking on a familiar form until the Devil’s hands were wrapped around something solid, and Julian’s heart skipped a beat at the sight. He stood from his huddle with Mercedes and Melchior to get a closer look, pleading harder than he ever had before to be _wrong_ , but the object in the Devil’s grasp didn’t change.

In the low light of the Count’s chambers, Lucio’s prosthetic arm gleamed.

“You said he wasn’t dead,” Julian whispered, horrified.

Nothing short of death would have parted Lucio from that arm— _nothing_.

“He isn’t,” the Devil agreed without hesitation, their tone mild, as if presenting Julian with his soulmate’s left arm wasn’t world-shattering, “although I’m certain that, for a man as vain as Lucio, it would have been kinder had you just killed him.” They turned the golden arm over in their hold, surveying it from multiple angles, even going so far as to play with Lucio’s fingers for their own bored observations. Unimpressed with the range of movement, they raised a brow. “I would have preferred that, as well,” they went on distractedly, switching from bending the fingers to testing the rotation of the wrist, “which brings me to my point.”

 _That’s…_ Torn between whether to focus on the implication that Lucio had encountered a situation over which he would’ve preferred death or on the Devil’s desire for the expiration of Lucio’s life, Julian’s head had begun to hurt, and he lifted his hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to keep the agony at bay. He was finding it impossible to follow each and every thread that comprised this situation, too exhausted to comb through the onslaught of his own feelings and separate the rational from the irrational; and, even if he weren’t drowning in an out-of-control mess of emotions, he doubted he would’ve been able to navigate the winding paths of the Devil’s words and figure out their meaning, either.

“I’ve confused you,” the Devil surmised, their voice cutting through his thoughts. Grimacing, Julian dropped his hand and glanced in their direction, looking up just in time to see Lucio’s arm evaporate as the Arcana brushed the prosthetic out of existence. “It seems as if it did not occur to me that Lucio would have a soulmate as weak as he is. Forgive me. Why don’t you take a seat, Doctor?” They gestured to the chair at Lucio’s desk. “As I said, I wish to speak with you.”

While most of what the Devil had said so far had proven to be mind-bogglingly inscrutable, _that_ insult had been pretty straightforward. Offended more on Lucio’s behalf than on his own, Julian frowned. 

“He’s not weak—” he objected, but, before he could finish, there came the noise of furniture being dragged across the floor, and he fell backwards onto the aforementioned desk chair as an invisible force sent it crashing into his knees. Although he landed on the cushioned surface in uncomfortable sprawl, he wasn’t left in that position for long, for chains—heavy, dark, unbreakable links eerily similar to those that obscured the Devil’s figure on the face of their tarot card—sprang from the ground. They lashed his ankles to the front legs of the chair and his wrists to the chair’s arms, and, frightened, he struggled against the bonds. The chains tightened with his every attempt to free himself, restricting blood flow to his hands and feet to the point that, after a few moments, he could no longer feel them. 

At the chair’s side, Mercedes and Melchior panicked, Mercedes even reaching for the chains wrapped around one of his ankles. “Don’t—!” he tried to tell her, and then gasped as another chain slithered around his neck and strangled him, not entirely blocking his ability to breathe but preventing him from being able to speak. Unable to warn her, he could do nothing but watch helplessly as Mercedes attempted to break the chains at his feet by biting them only to end up yelping as if she’d been injured and scrambling away. As Mercedes writhed and whimpered in pain, Julian ached to reach out to soothe her, but the best he could do was catch Melchior’s eye and toss a glance in the direction of Lucio’s bed. Thankfully, Melchior got the hint, and he scurried off to hide in the space between the bed and the floor, dragging Mercedes with him by her tail.

“He _is_ weak,” the Devil reiterated, stepping forward to take Julian’s chin in hand, ripping his gaze away from the dogs. “Do not let obligatory sentiment blind you like this, Doctor. Your soulmate is a coward, as are his hounds.” They swept out their other hand in an arc, indicating the entirety of Lucio’s chambers. “Things have not gone his way, and so he has abandoned you yet again. I have heard of your intelligence from others, yet, because he is your _soulmate_ , you persist in wasting your loyalty on a man too foolish to realize he has it. Frankly, I’m disappointed—I know you know better than to place your faith in an ineptitude of such caliber.”

As the meaning of that particular remark sunk in, Julian blinked, a faint, confused surprise gradually supplanting the dread that’d clawed its way up his chest and decelerating the harsh, frantic beating of his heart. While it was likely that the Devil hadn’t intended the words to be anything other than yet another slight against Lucio’s character, something about them struck a chord, one that knocked loose what little breath he had left in his lungs as he identified just what it was. 

The Devil had said that Lucio was too foolish to realize he had his soulmate’s loyalty, probably attributing it to the Count’s selfish nature, but, to Julian, it came across less as foolishness and more as… 

 _Insecurity_. 

Unbidden, in his mind surfaced a recent memory: Julian could feel the phantom sensation of Lucio’s fingers bunched fiercely in the collar of his shirt and could picture the angry flush that’d risen to the other’s cheeks as well as the betrayed look in his eyes, and in his ears echoed the bitter rasp of his soulmate’s voice as the man had all but snarled at him, so obviously distraught at his belief that he’d been rejected that it’d tugged at Julian’s heartstrings. It’d taken a kiss for Lucio to calm himself, and, though the Count had returned it, he’d fled immediately afterwards.

 _Not right now_ , Julian had told him. At the time, it’d seemed as if the other had understood, but had that been a front?

Did Lucio still not see that he was wanted?

“Yes, yes, you may be bound to him on a cosmic level of some sort,” the Devil continued, heedless of their victim’s thoughts, “but I recommend that you wash your hands of him once and for all. He will bring you more unnecessary trouble, otherwise. Let him go, or suffer the consequences.” Having made their point, they let go of the doctor and moved back, straightening their shoulders. “Anyway. To that end, I propose that we come to an agreement. If we work together, I think we can reach a… mutually beneficial arrangement of sorts, don’t you?”

In the interest of receiving an answer, the Devil allowed the chain around Julian’s neck to slacken and waited impatiently for him to gather his bearings, arms crossed and tapping their claws against their elbows. 

“Uh…” The doctor coughed at the return of a steady flow of air, clearing his throat of the burn that came with asphyxiation. Oddly enough, the discomfort disappeared within seconds; the chain had only just released its grip, yet it felt as if it he hadn’t been choked at all. _Weird._ “What?” he repeated, deciding to overlook that tiny peculiarity for now.

The Devil rolled their eyes. “Lucio has become a liability, one for which I no longer wish to be responsible,” they said, the statement blunt enough to make Julian wince. “While he has never been dependable, he at least managed to provide some much needed entertainment in the beginning of our association, but his pining has since ceased to interest me.” They tossed their head with a derisive snort. “ _Humans_. You mortals have always been somewhat amusing, what with with your short, worthless lives and your pathetic soulmate business, but I’m afraid Lucio’s obsession with you has ruined whatever delight I’d been able to find in watching humanity torment themselves with their pitiful desire for love.

“He is like a swarm of fleas whose infestation I cannot shake—persistent, annoying. _Loud_. And he has finally exhausted my patience.” Sighing, they lifted a hand to rub at their temple, expression exasperated, before they shook their head and let their claws fall away from their face, crossing their arms again and rearranging their features back into their typical arrogant, insensitive countenance. “I would very much like to rid myself of that imbecile. You understand.”

Speechless, Julian gaped. “I…” He wet his lips, searching fruitlessly for an appropriate response, though he did not let himself shrink away from the Devil’s expectant gaze despite how badly he wanted to do so. They drummed their claws along the crook of their elbow, the tempo of it unhurried but insistent; with each tap of their fingers, the doctor’s heart beat a strong note of warning against his ribcage.

What was he supposed to say to that? Did the Devil truly think that he wanted to shake Lucio loose, when he’d gone to ridiculous, almost surreal lengths to prevent that very outcome? Working himself to the bone in the dungeons; turning a blind eye to the sobs of Plague victims as he strapped their frail, fragile limbs to the raised platform on the stage; performing vivisections, even without the excuse of Valdemar directing his hands; hopping between realms at the side of a magician who’d lied to him; sacrificing his mark—they weren’t the actions of someone who despised their soulmate, were they? _Yes_ , it’d all been for the greater good of Vesuvia, but he couldn’t pretend as if his motivations had been entirely selfless. Everything he’d done, he’d done it mostly for _Lucio_. Even at the start, he’d had Lucio on his mind more often than not, still so stricken over having failed to save the man’s arm years before and compelled by his need to redeem himself in the Count’s eyes. If Lucio had spoken of him as often as the Devil claimed he had, then surely they were aware of all of that, too?

More than that, _how_ had the Devil been able to bring themselves to spew such venomous insults without any trace of guilt? Granted, it was Lucio’s own fault for having trusted the Devil and their demons—historically deceitful entities, if the bad fortunes and cautionary tales Asra had shared during the nights he’d read Lucio’s cards were any indication—to the extent that he’d readily made deals with them, but Julian doubted that Lucio had ever thought the Devil would become so irritated by him that they’d go behind his back and advocate for his death. It was likely that the Count hadn’t expected even _the Devil_ to possess the unrepentant callousness necessary for such a thing.

Although—Julian had once done the same, hadn’t he? Many of the doctor’s fondest memories of Palace life featured his chats with Nadia and Asra on the former’s balcony, where, after a bottle of wine or two, they’d devolved into fits of giggles over their own jokes about Lucio and his impending death. Even after Lucio’s health had deteriorated so far that he’d all but confined himself to his chambers, the three of them—the only people upon whom Julian had ever heard Lucio bestow the term _friend_ —had still snickered at his misery. The Count was insufferable, as were his non-stop histrionics, but what had Asra’s nasty teasing and Nadia’s open contempt been other than cruel? 

On how many occasions had Julian, tipsy and loose-lipped and surrounded by the warmth of his friends, suggested various ways not to heal Lucio but to kill him faster, and then lost track of time as he and Nadia and Asra had all howled with laughter? Whatever he’d said had always been fueled by alcohol and in jest, and he’d never been so bold as to mock Lucio to his face the way the others had, but…

Perhaps it _wasn’t_ too outlandish for the Devil to have approached him, after all, he thought, and the shame that came with the realization caused his cheeks to burn bright red.

“Why are you telling me this,” he asked, cringing as he heard how hoarse his voice had become.

The Devil scoffed. “Do not play dumb, Doctor,” they admonished. “Even if I _were_ one to repeat myself, I will not—I can see it in your face that you know exactly why. No matter what you have deluded yourself into believing in the present, the truth is unmistakable. You do not love him. You never have.” They shrugged. “Who would?”

The Arcana’s taunt hit Julian with an impact so violent it felt as if they’d delivered not a verbal but a physical blow, yanking him so forcefully from the fog of guilt that had descended upon his mind that it gave him whiplash: it was _love_ that the Devil had mentioned—even as often as twice, now—but at what point had such an extreme ever been at stake? 

What he and Lucio shared wasn’t love. 

Love was his younger sister breaking into peals of laughter at his melodramatic declarations of surrender after she’d pinned him to the ground during their light-hearted sparring matches; it was the soft smile on Nadia’s lips as she spoke to Chandra in the gardens, the owl perched on her shoulder and hooting with either approval or disapproval at every flower Nadia lifted up for their mutual inspection; it was the fluttering of Asra’s soulmate’s lashes as their partner had teased them and kissed them on the cheek, and the devotion that bloomed, bright and sweet, in both shopkeepers’ eyes whenever they looked at or spoke of Muriel; and it was the pride in the Count’s voice as he commended Mercedes and Melchior on the various game they’d caught for him while roaming the Palace grounds, the gentle touch with which he scratched behind Brundle’s ears even as she dared to drool on him in her sleep, and the fond, long-suffering grin that graced his features each time he outstretched his arm to Camio and listened patiently to the bird’s indignant squawks. Julian cared for his soulmate, but in no way did whatever chaotic jumble of feelings that laid between the two of them contain _love_. 

No, he didn’t love Lucio. Loving someone else took time, and it took honesty. Both were in short supply where his relationship with the Count of Vesuvia was concerned, but he had hope that such necessary things wouldn’t always be so impossible for them to find. So long as they talked things out… they didn’t have to be doomed to lonely existences.

What he and Lucio shared was the _potential_ to fall in love, and that, right now, was enough. It had to be.

It was chilling, how readily he’d almost forgotten that. With nothing but their words, the Devil had manipulated him—exposing his every insecurity, preying on his doubts—and Julian had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. They could keep combing through his mind and plucking from it his greatest uncertainties all they pleased, but he wouldn’t let himself be exploited by their tricky, misleading turns of phrase again.

“I still _want_ him,” he argued, determination renewed, but the Devil raised a hand, and the chain around his neck went rigid and resumed crushing his throat, cutting him off.

“ _Manners_ , Doctor,” they said cooly, clucking their tongue. “It’s rude to interrupt.”

At his answering glare, they grinned.

“Now that I have your undivided attention, I would like to make my offer,” they began. “As you might have guessed, I am in the rather unenviable position of requiring Lucio’s help with some plans of mine, but he has grown less than useful as of late, which, for a man already prone to incompetence… well.” _He’s_ **_dying_** , Julian felt obliged to remind them, but he bit his tongue against the impulse, not wanting to waste what little breath he had left on making a point the Devil would likely refuse to hear. “But _you_ , Doctor? You could replace him easily enough. All you need do is name your price, and I will pay it. I can grant you whatever you wish.”

Although the chain around his neck was like a vice, the loop of it squeezing his throat more viciously than Faust ever had, he managed to gasp out, “And… L-Lucio?”

“He is a thorn in my side whose death I would gladly appreciate,” they said, nose twitching with distaste, “but, as much as it would pain me, I _suppose_ I could settle for simply removing him from my employ… _if_ you were to assume _all_ of his duties, of course. 

“However, in order for me to honor such a compromise, you must demonstrate your willingness to meet me halfway.” They narrowed their eyes. “One blunder, be it big or small, and your beloved soulmate is dead. I will not tolerate any rebellion from either you _or_ him.” With a snap of their fingers, the chain around his throat loosened, and Julian inhaled as deeply as his lungs would allow only to end up coughing on the exhale. The Devil ignored him as he noisily struggled to breathe, and they asked, tone curt, “Is that what you demand in return, then? Lucio?”

Still trying to recover from being choked _yet again_ , Julian shook his head. 

He’d already made one deal with the Arcana for Lucio’s life today, and, between the Hanged Man and the Devil, the Hanged Man seemed the safer choice, both for himself _and_ for Lucio. Going Hanged Man’s the route meant that Lucio would have to die, yes, but siding with the Devil… they’d made an art of deceit, so it was almost a given that they had an ace up their metaphorical sleeve. Considering their sincerity of their hatred for Lucio, doubtlessly any bargain with them would have in store for Lucio a fate worse than death. Lucio aside, a deal with them would probably have something _special_ planned for Julian, too; having seen in what position deals with the Devil and their demons had landed Lucio, he had no desire to find out what that something was. Beyond that, even if the Devil’s proffered deal turned out _not_ to contain anything duplicitous or open to interpretation in the fine print, who was to say that they wouldn’t someday approach someone else with a similar speech, angling for Julian’s death? 

Perhaps Lucio wouldn’t approve of him deciding to follow through on his plan he’d made with the assistance of the Hanged Man, but he didn’t need Lucio’s approval—he just needed Lucio’s cooperation. Although it seemed simple in theory, convincing Lucio to go along with his original plan necessitated first having Lucio’s trust, and he hoped that, despite everything, his soulmate had come to trust him more than he did the Devil.

“I-I’m… I’m _not_ m-making a deal with you,” Julian wheezed, still catching his breath, and then reared back in his seat as much as the chains would allow when the Devil’s eyes flashed, their lips pulling back in a snarl.

Their loss of composure disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared, although they weren’t entirely successful in hiding the momentary lapse in control. “An unwise decision,” they tutted, schooling their expression and keeping their voice level, but the frown of having been unpleasantly surprised still lingered in the subtle lines of their face for a few moments more. 

Julian stared at them, brows rising towards his hairline in shock. For them to have had _that_ strong a reaction to him rejecting their offer, they had to have been fully convinced that he’d accept.

“I do not give second chances, Doctor,” the Devil informed him lightly, “but I will never let it be said that I am unreasonable.” The heavy irons keeping him shackled to the chair fell away as they spoke, each individual link dematerializing in a cloud of red mist before it could hit the ground. Sensation rushed back into his hands and feet, blood flooding his extremities so rapidly that it caused him to feel as if his fingertips were throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but the subsequent pins and needles lasted only briefly, abating within mere seconds. As the Devil spoke again, he looked back up from where he’d been rubbing his wrists with a bemused frown. “For you, I will make an exception.”

“Oh.” Nothing about being the Devil’s exception sounded particularly good. “I, uh.”

Julian paused, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. The Arcana had repaired the sudden, miniscule fracture in their self-control, but the smile they’d used to do so held a glaringly obvious hint of spitefulness to it, one that tugged the corners of their mouth higher with a crooked twist; he hadn’t noticed how much their underlying boredom had served to temper their character until pure animosity had consumed it, malice burning in their gaze while contempt dripped like poison from their every word. Ridiculing him, provoking him, restraining him with chains—the Devil had been poking and prodding at him as if he were a live specimen they’d tacked to a tray, experimenting with various methods of tormenting him in the hopes of finding the most efficient way to elicit a rise.

As they’d discussed Lucio and his death, they’d been seeking not to harm Julian, but to entertain themselves. They’d viewed the doctor as a means to an end—an inconsequential plaything with which they could toy to their heart’s content, so long as they were careful not to break him beyond use—but, upon his refusal to bargain with them, they’d marked him as an obstacle, one whose need to be removed trumped their want for amusement. Clearly, whatever words and actions of theirs that were about to follow would be driven solely by the intention to hurt him.

 _This_ was the Devil from Asra’s tarot deck.

“If you would indulge me for a moment?” they wondered aloud, beckoning him forward with a wave of their hand. 

In the interest of avoiding being hauled to their side by another set of magical fetters, Julian complied with their request and stood from the desk chair, and the Arcana led him to stand before the full-length portrait of Lucio posing victoriously against the backdrop of a bleak tundra while he had a skull crushed under his heel. It was one of the more ostentatious of Lucio’s many portraits of himself, but it was saved from being on the receiving end of the Palace residents’ distaste by sheer virtue of having been painted with more skill than others. Although Nadia detested it, having referred to it as an eyesore more than once and occasionally even having cited it as the source of a headache, there was another in the hall that Julian knew she hated even more due to its less than steady brush strokes and amateur use of color. 

He would have agreed with her, had this portrait in particular not regularly been Lucio’s point of reference whenever he’d mourned the decline of his good looks. At first, it’d grated on his nerves, having to listen to a grown man fish for compliments by calling himself ugly when, in reality, the Count was still more handsome than was good for his already inflated ego, even despite his illness; and then, once the Plague had sapped the last of his strength and had reduced him to a shadow of his former self, it’d simply been unbearable to hear the misery in his voice gradually become more genuine with each complaint.

“A hideous portrait,” the Devil commented, “for a hideous man.” Julian frowned, but, apprehensive of how poorly the other would take it if he were to defend the Count’s looks, he kept his lips pursed, even if it was difficult to hold back—Lucio’s appearance _was_ one of the few defensible things about his largely indefensible soulmate. Thankfully, the Arcana soon continued. “At least it serves a purpose besides catering to Lucio’s vanity.” Gripping the doctor’s shoulder, they pushed him to step closer to the painting as they themselves moved back. “Bottom right corner, along the underside of the frame,” they instructed. “You’ll know it when you find it.”

Because the portrait spanned the length of the wall, checking underneath the frame required him to sink awkwardly to his knees, and he heard the clacking of the Devil’s hoofed feet against the floor as they moved to loom over him, observing him closely and sending shivers up his spine. The intensity of their stare weighed on him more heavily than Valdemar’s ever had: being the focus of his boss’s attention always brought with it the feeling that they were daydreaming about peeling away the skin from his body, their oily gaze sliding over him in the path of the cuts they were imagining they’d make with a knife, but the Devil’s eyes drilling holes in the back of his head made him acutely aware that they had even less reason to hesitate over killing him than Valdemar did. Even worse was that, in addition to the Devil watching him, it felt as if the Lucio in the portrait was, too.

Flustered, Julian shot the Arcana a questioning glance over his shoulder. When they grinned and made a shooing motion, encouraging him to get on with it, he swallowed and turned back to the painting, tossing Lucio’s face one last fleeting look before he dragged his hand across the bottom of the frame. It wasn’t long until he passed his fingers over a minor flaw in the structure of the gilding, but, as he ducked his head to get a better look, his finger slipped, unintentionally pressing down and revealing the misshapen knot of gilding to be a button.

With a hair-raising screech, the portrait swung outward like a door, stopping once it opened to a gap hardly wide enough to admit one person, and Julian scrambled away and to his feet, suppressing an embarrassing shriek of his own.

“After you, Doctor,” the Devil said, nudging him towards the dark tunnel behind the painting without even granting him the courtesy of a moment to calm down. Worryingly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mercedes begin to wiggle her way out from underneath the bed, probably intending to follow him, but he held up a hand to stop her, flashing her and Melchior both a reassuring smile that he hoped didn’t appear as strained as it felt. He didn’t know what awaited him in the room the portrait had been concealing, and he refused to put her in danger. Although loath to do so, she slinked back to her spot next to Melchior, letting out a high-pitched whine to express her displeasure, ears flat against her head. Irritated, the Devil gave Julian another light, impatient shove in the portrait’s direction. “Go on. Watch your step.”

Behind the portrait was a set of needlessly ominous stairs, the stones seeming as if they would crumble under his feet. While the steps weren’t steep, nor were there many of them leading to the landing below, walking down to the next room still didn’t seem safe, and he turned around to tell the Devil as much only to see them shut the portrait in his face with a click. 

“W-Wait!” Panicking, Julian slammed his palms against the reverse side of the portrait, skimming his hands up and down the backing as well as feeling along the edges for another button with no success. His heart leapt into his throat as he realized the door was, essentially, locked, leaving him with no way out, and that the Devil had left him trapped on the wrong side. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” He’d never done so poorly with dark, confined spaces, but this one was far less welcoming than a warm tent in the woods or a hammock below a ship’s deck, and his anxiety was spiking. “Please open up!”

“Enough with the shouting,” came the Devil’s response, although, instead of filtering through the portrait into the hallway from where Julian thought they’d still remained in the Count’s chambers, their voice had been carried up the stairs. He whipped around, heart slamming furiously against his ribs with every uncomfortable beat, and the Devil stood at the bottom of the landing, brows raised in confusion as if they couldn’t possibly understand what’d made him distressed. “Are you always so skittish?”

 _Damn it_. Releasing an unsteady breath, he dusted off his pants, needing the distraction to relax the racing of his heart. As he descended to the Devil’s level, he kept his head down, looking exclusively at his boots as his feet tread down the stone stairway and his heels accidentally kicked pebbles loose, but what greeted him at the end of the staircase was nothing so horrible as what he’d been picturing: despite the gloomy, dilapidated hallway suggesting that whatever room that laid at its end was something akin to what greeted Julian in the dungeons every day, that wasn’t the case at all, and he stopped short at the rather innocuous arrangement. 

“This… is a dining room.”

Much like the Count’s personal chambers, the room behind his portrait was extravagant to the point of excess, beautifully appointed and trussed up with decorations that were various shades of red. At the center, operating as the room’s focal point, was a long table upon which rested multiple multiple place settings, the tableware glittering and golden in the muted light of the low-hanging chandelier. Each place setting had been placed in front of the individual chairs, twenty-one in total and evenly spaced. Mesmerized, Julian walked further into the room, the Devil almost fading to a background annoyance, and, upon closer examination, it seemed as if he’d missed the chair at the head of the table when he’d counted them—the chair was high-backed and looked comfortable, much like the others, but the design of its rails and stiles was even more intricate, setting it apart from the rest. It had toppled over and was laying on the ground, as if whoever had recently been seated there had made so urgent an escape that the chair had clattered to the floor with the haste from which they’d pushed away from the table.

Why had Lucio gone to such lengths to hide something as ordinary as a private dining room behind his portrait? Vesuvia’s beloved Count had never been the most rational of men, but this truly just seemed so… _bizarre_ , even for Lucio.

“Indeed it is,” the Devil told him. “Your powers of observation are unparalleled, Doctor.”

Julian ignored their snide remark as he approached one chair in particular. Something about it was calling to him in a way the others did not, drawing him closer and closer until he could clearly see its respective set of flatware, its dishes and utensils laid out in a neat arrangement. The dinner plate specifically then caught his attention—etched upon its surface was the same symbol that was embossed on the cover of the book Asra’s soulmate had given him. He looked over to inspect the dishes of the adjacent place setting and saw that the symbol had been pressed onto that dinner plate as well, and, as he meandered around the table, pausing to check each seat’s dishes, he noticed that no main plate had been spared the same treatment. The only dinner plate that seemed different from the rest was the one at the head of the table, for a slightly larger version of the symbol had been carved into it, the ends of the design almost touching the lip.

Hesitantly, he brushed his fingertips along the lines of the symbol, tracing its shape. “So, is this—?”

“ _Don’t touch that_!”

Before he could jerk his fingers away from the plate, a clawed hand much like the Devil’s shot out from behind him and unexpectedly snatched his wrist, the points of its barbed nails digging into his flesh hard enough to sting and clutching him with a desperation that automatically marked the hand as not belonging to the Arcana. Startled, his heart began to thump wildly in fear for what had to be the thousandth time today, and he blindly reached out with his now trembling free hand and made a few failed grabs for the place setting’s knife until he had it securely within his grasp. Brandishing the knife in a shaky defense, he twisted around to face his assailant, grateful that his glove provided a surer grip on the knife’s handle than his sweaty hand would’ve otherwise managed.

Little good his glove did, though, once he registered just what had seized his wrist, and he lost his hold on the knife completely, too frozen to react even as it clattered noisily to the floor. 

The creature that’d grabbed him was terrifying, but not wholly unknown. With their black, twisting horns, red eyes, and white fur, they were almost identical to the goat-headed figure at the center of the painting in the dining hall, as if they’d leapt from the confines of the canvas… 

And, as Julian caught sight of how the creature’s left arm ended below their shoulder, he recalled with a sense of foreboding that the goat in the painting had been meant to represent one person in particular.

“ _Lucio_?” he breathed, voice catching. He’d barely been able to hear himself over the roar of blood rushing in his ears, but, even still, his whisper sounded painfully loud in the dead silence that’d blanketed the room.

The question hadn’t been more than a guess, ludicrous as it was—this beast _couldn’t_ be the Count of Vesuvia, they simply couldn’t be—but then, at the sound of Lucio’s name, they flinched.

_No… no way._

Even as he tried to deny it, Julian knew that, somehow, his gut feeling was right. Part of what had given the Devil away when they’d stolen the Count’s form had been the lack of depth in their expression—whereas, in reality, Lucio had never been able to conceal his emotions to any significant degree, even on the rare occasions during which he’d actually tried not to let his temper get the better of himself. It’d always made reading Lucio rather easy, and it was just as easy now for Julian to see that same humanity reflected in the eyes of the creature in front of him. 

“Lucio…?” Julian called softly. He lifted his free hand, keeping his movements slow, and reached out to run his fingers along the other’s cheek, thinking that, if he could just _touch_ them, his limbs and his body overall would feel a little less wobbly. “Are you…?”

As soon as his hand alighted on their face, the creature’s eyes widened as a fierce, familiar longing flooded their gaze, and _that_ was the final nail in the coffin.

Only his soulmate had ever looked at him like that.

“Am I _what_ , Jules,” Lucio asked. “Just spit it out already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter's alternative title is An Exercise in How to Overuse Ellipses: Mistreating Punctuation to Suit Your Own Nefarious Purposes)
> 
> me, last chapter: "everything will be explained eventually"  
> me, this chapter: "but in the meantime here are some more things that need an eventual explanation!"
> 
> also this little ditty goes out to [mamajunghan](https://mamajunghan.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for gassing me up and for all around being a great person and whose art is to die for 
> 
> (also also you _really_ would not believe the amount of goat puns i was able to come up with. like......it was too many. and it was so tough picking just one but i didn't want to make it too obvious lol.)
> 
> ty, everyone :-) see you next chapter hopefully?? 🌈


	10. IXS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so after several rounds of editing with the team (and by that i mean after bugging tf out of my friends by asking them what i should do w this chapter) i decided to post this bit and extend the chapter count by one instead of taking longer to finish. im sorry this took so long but i really, really, genuinely was not expecting to write this much?? but you know me, i love taking a thousand words to make one [1] thing to happen. anyway moral is if you're writing a story, pls for the love of god make an outline. don't be like me. 
> 
> on the bright side the next (and the absolute last mark my words) chapter shouldn't take so long bc i already have a good third of it written and did actually plan out what i want to happen (which is rare). also sorry this one is pretty ooc but hey, in the words of chapter 79 of moby dick, i try all things, i achieve what i can

_Jules_.

At the sound of Lucio’s nickname for him, Julian inhaled sharply. If he’d needed any more confirmation that this creature was his soulmate, then there it was; even the Devil, when posing as Lucio, hadn’t thought to call him that. For a brief moment, panic seized him— _what had Lucio done_ **_now_** , he wondered, the thought despairing—though it soon gave way to a muted sense of relief, the knot in his stomach loosening as Lucio leaned into his touch. Although his worry for the other remained at the forefront of his mind, the intensity of it slowly abated in the face of the fact that Lucio was still _alive_.

No matter what had happened, at least Lucio hadn’t died.

“O-Okay,” Julian finished, embarrassed when his voice cracked weakly. Lucio was warm beneath his palm, and the doctor slid his hand down to rest on top of the fur-covered chest, needing to feel its rise and fall that came with each steady breath. The thrumming of Lucio’s heart, continuous and stable, further grounded him, relaxing him to the point that he eventually deemed himself able to attempt to speak again. Clearing his throat, he said, “I was only going to ask if you’re okay.”

Lucio snorted, inelegant as ever. “Do I _look_ okay?” he demanded. His tone was petulant, making his words seem less like a question and more like a pathetic whine, and Julian held back a smile, a startling rush of fondness spreading through him.

Considering how much effort Julian had previously put into ignoring the other’s loud, endless complaints, he hadn’t expected to miss Lucio’s childishness or notorious temper, yet there was something oddly comforting in hearing it again: even though Lucio might have… had his appearance changed, more or less, he was still the same man for whose bad attitude Julian had developed a bit of a soft spot. The Plague had failed to humble him—even once he’d begun to wither away much more rapidly than before, so much so that he’d confined himself to his deathbed, he hadn’t had any sudden change of heart.

It was different from what Julian had grown to anticipate from his dying patients. Over the years, the doctor played witness to a number of teary about-faces, the Plague regularly having forced him into that position back when it’d first started sweeping its way through Vesuvia and he’d still worked at his clinic. He’d held patients’ hands as they confessed to him their deepest, darkest secrets in their final moments, doing his best to comfort them while they’d cried and begged him for a forgiveness that he couldn’t grant, but Lucio hadn’t followed the usual pattern. If anything, the process of succumbing to a fatal illness had pushed Lucio into holding even more fiercely onto his belief that the certainty of death would never apply to him. He’d done the same when he’d lost his arm, too.

Apparently, turning into some kind of goat monster hadn’t encouraged Lucio confront his demons, either—well, metaphorically, at least. The question of whether or not he’d done so physically was still on the table. Was that what’d led him to his current state? Either way, apart from his appearance, Lucio hadn’t changed at all.

Julian was probably the only one who’d ever find that reassuring.

“Well, you’ve had better days,” he answered before he could stop himself, and then he winced. This was _not_ the time for his urge to make jokes during tense, uncomfortable situations to rear its ugly head—he doubted that Lucio’s new form had come with the ability to laugh at himself. Fumbling for a quick recovery, Julian hurried to add, “You’ve, uh… you’ve also had worse, though?” 

What he’d said may have been a joke—and not even a very good one, at that—but it was still true: he was familiar with the Count’s polar opposites in terms of his looks, having seen Lucio both at his best and at his worst. Right now, Lucio looked… _scruffy_ , for lack of a better word. He was nowhere near as regal as he’d been when he’d summoned Julian to the Palace all those months ago, his figure highlighted by the extravange of his fine clothing and his smile astonishingly gorgeous but barbed; but, on the bright side, Lucio didn’t appear to be as horribly ill as he had the last time Julian had seen him. 

As a goat, he seemed sturdy, his frame no longer so frail that even the gentlest of touches ran the risk of hurting him. Perhaps he wasn’t as tidy and well-groomed as the Devil, his shoulders still hunched and his white fur as messy as his blond hair had been, but the dark circles under his eyes had vanished, as had the sallowness of his skin and the feverish flush that’d dotted his cheeks.

“You look…” Casting about in his mind for an appropriate description, Julian finally settled on _good_ —the choice was underwhelming, but it was accurate, because, compared to when they’d last met, Lucio _did_ look good in that he seemed less on the verge of death. “You look good.”

Lucio huffed in response and glanced away, shifting uncomfortably where he stood. “Don’t lie to me,” he muttered.

Julian frowned as he recalled the Devil’s many insinuations that the Count had encountered a fate he considered worse than death. _It would have been kinder had you just killed him_ , they’d said. Given Lucio’s obsession with beauty, Julian was inclined to believe the Arcana.

“I’m not,” he insisted. 

Whereas he’d chosen to focus on the fact that his soulmate was whole and alive before him, albeit not quite the same as Julian had left him, he was sure that Lucio had decided to fixate on the superficial as per usual. To Lucio—who’d been suffering the deterioration of his looks due to the Plague and had clung to the possibility that he’d someday recover—turning into a goat had probably snatched the rug out from underneath him and destroyed the last shreds of his desperate hope that he’d ever again like what he saw in the mirror. Even though he’d been fully convinced that he’d be cured of the Plague, what chance did he have of being cured of _this_? He likely thought he’d be stuck as a goat forever. 

Sighing, Julian slid his hand back up to cup the other’s cheek, brushing his fingers through the coarse, disheveled fur as he went. “Lucio,” he said, offering up a small smile once he managed to catch Lucio’s gaze. “I’m not lying—I swear.”

At that, Lucio rolled his eyes, but he seemed more flustered than skeptical. “You’re taking this well.”

An exhausted laugh bubbled up in Julian’s chest, and he shook his head. “This really isn’t the weirdest thing that’s happened to me recently,” he admitted. Between traipsing through the muggy swamp that served as the Hanged Man’s realm at the side of a magician he didn’t trust and being shackled to a desk chair by the Devil while they lectured him like a schoolmaster, discovering that his soulmate had taken on the form of a goat was towards the bottom of his list of odd occurrences. “And it’s just—” He shrugged lamely. “Nice. Um. To see you again.”

That was an understatement. Though he couldn’t forget Lucio’s deals with the Devil, what with his desire to ask about the subject of Lucio having corrupted his soul and consequently their bond to satiate his own selfishness burning in the back of his mind, the reality was still that Julian hadn’t gotten so much as a single glimpse of Lucio in _days_. The servants had kept him updated on Lucio’s health as best they could, but their many reports and missives paled in comparison to being able to see Lucio for himself. Another method of avoiding his problems or not, he felt as if he’d earned the right to ignore the Devil and the question of Lucio’s relationship with them in favor of basking in his relief that his soulmate was still alive and that he wasn’t too late to save him, even if for only a few moments.

As if summoned by Julian’s thoughts, the Devil stepped back into view, looming behind Lucio like a shadow, and their deep voice cut like a knife through whatever peace had settled over the room.

“If you two are quite finished?” they asked archly. Lucio jumped and whirled around to face them, caught off guard by their sudden reappearance, and Julian’s hand fell away from his face. “Your reunion made for a much more boring show than I’d anticipated. How disappointing.” They let out a scoff, and then they turned to Lucio, their expression unimpressed. “I take it you’ve decided to stop hiding?”

“I-I wasn’t _hiding_!” Lucio argued. “Just…” He shot Julian a fleeting look, after which he trailed off guiltily.

The Devil hummed, the sound of it heavy with disapproval. “Of course you weren’t,” they agreed, the words painfully insincere.

Before Lucio could even open his mouth to reply, Julian interrupted. Lucio had the frustrating habit of never knowing when to stop, and the annoyed glint in the Devil’s eyes showed very clearly that, if Lucio were to pursue the topic, it wasn’t going to end well. And there was little doubt that Lucio _would_.

If Julian could get the Devil’s attention to shift from Lucio to _himself_ , then they’d leave his soulmate alone. Yes, the Devil was visibly irritated, seeming as if they were on the verge of snapping, but Julian had already endured their idea of torture and had emerged on the other side largely unharmed; he didn’t know if Lucio—whose new body, while stronger than his human body, was presumably still weak from the Plague—could survive the same. Maybe a mystical, unbreakable chain wrapping itself around Lucio’s throat and squeezing until its victim couldn’t breathe wouldn’t _kill_ the Count, but Julian wasn’t willing to take any chances on Lucio’s health.

His _own_ , however… well. That was fair game.

Besides, he had questions to which he wanted answers.

“You told me you didn’t do anything to him,” Julian spoke up. “Why is he…” At a loss, he flushed and gestured vaguely in Lucio’s direction. _Why is he_ _like that?_

Slowly, the Devil swiveled their head towards him, pinning him in place with their cold gaze, but Julian didn’t let himself shrink away.

“Again with the accusations,” the Arcana said, mild. Despite the flatness of their tone, there still lurked in their voice the promise of violence. “Have we not already discussed this? I suppose I should not be surprised—human minds are like a sieve, and yours is no exception. Interrogating me so rudely when the blame rests squarely on your shoulders…” With a long, exaggerated sigh, they spread their hands helplessly and shrugged. “Such _insolence_ , Doctor. If your goal is to assign fault, then you need look no further than yourself.”

Julian blinked, confused. He hadn’t expected the Devil to turn the question back around onto him. Nor had Lucio, it seemed—even as Julian stared determinedly forward, holding the Devil’s gaze, he could see Lucio looking at him in horrified shock out of the corner of his eye. 

“Uh…” Swallowing, Julian stammered, his voice nothing more than a squeak, “I… I didn’t…”

The Devil tutted. “Ah, but you did,” they corrected much more gleefully than Julian felt was warranted, a sharp grin spreading across their features and the points of their teeth gleaming menacingly in the low light of Lucio’s private dining room. They outstretched a hand, wiggling their claws in a manner they must have meant to be either frightening or enticing. “Your right wrist, please?” With inhuman speed, they snatched the doctor’s wrist for themselves, closing their fingers around him in a vice grip before he could even process their not-quite-request for himself.

_Oh_ , Julian realized as the Devil reached for his glove. _Oh, no_.

This was _not_ at all how he’d hoped to explain to Lucio that he’d traded his mark to the Hanged Man in exchange for a way to cure the Plague. Granted, he hadn’t exactly managed to formulate a _plan_ , per se, on how to break the news, but he knew that having _the Devil_ reveal his unmarked wrist to Lucio was the last thing he wanted. After all, hadn’t he emphasized to Lucio the importance of honesty in their relationship, having pushed away his soulmate for lying to him? If the Devil were the one to show his soulmate what he’d done, he was positive Lucio would assume that he’d been intending to hide it.

Unfortunately, struggling proved to be of no use: Julian tried tugging his wrist out of their grasp, face heating in exertion as he threw his strength behind twisting his arm away, but the Devil held fast. 

Deeming fighting against the Devil a lost cause, he instead moved to address his soulmate. Maybe if he could just _tell Lucio first_ —

“Lucio, I—” 

That was all he’d been able to say before the Devil successfully ripped his glove from his hand. His glove dropped to the floor with a dull _thud_ , where it continued to remain as Julian lowered his gaze to stare at it blankly, his heart sinking.

It was Lucio’s strangled gasp that abruptly pulled him from his haze of misery, causing him to full-body flinch.

“Lucio,” he tried again, this time with significantly less urgency than before. Getting too defensive now would only serve to make him seem more suspicious. He closed his eyes against the compulsion to turn and face Lucio as he spoke, not wanting to see the look of betrayal that likely awaited him. “It’s not what you think—”

Without warning, he felt what he guessed was one of the Devil’s chains begin to crawl up the length of his body. Cold metal slid up his leg and then slipped underneath his shirt, slithering across his bare skin and following the line of his back until it crept past his collar to coil around his neck like a serpent—and he was cut off once more, choking as the chain squeezed his throat so tightly that he was hyperaware of each individual link digging into his flesh.

_Of course_. 

Asra had always described the Devil as capricious, proficient in a wide array of tricks and crafty in how they implemented their many deceits; though, at this point, Julian wasn’t entirely sure he agreed with that assessment. The Devil was clever and dangerous—that, he wasn’t going to dispute—but they could stand to be a little less predictable. It didn’t take a magician to know that strangling someone with chains to prevent them from talking time and time again was less _consistency_ and more _a lack of creativity_. 

“A cliché excuse,” the Devil drawled. “If it’s not what he thinks, then what is it?” They took Julian’s chin in hand, pinching it between their thumb and their forefinger, and they jerked his head up, turning him so he was forced to meet Lucio’s gaze; yet, as they did so, they refused to allow the chain around his neck to slacken. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as the metal scraped roughly against his skin with the movement, and Lucio’s figure went watery around the edges. “Go on, Doctor. Enlighten him. Or shall I?”

Julian could hardly breathe, let alone answer. He glanced away from Lucio to glare daggers at the Devil, but they merely smirked and tilted their head, taunting him. The chain stiffened, crushing his windpipe even further, all but outright strangling him—then, in the next second, _just_ before the lack of air would have sent him collapsing to knees, the chain simply vanished.

“Aha,” the Devil murmured. 

As Julian dragged in as deep a breath as he could manage, the ache of having almost suffocated abating quickly, the Devil’s hand circled around his neck, though not with the aim of finishing the job they’d started earlier with their chain. Rather than kill him, they narrowed their eyes and moved forward for a closer look, their powerful grip keeping him from being able to lean away as they advanced. Eyes narrowed, they dragged the tip of a claw over his throat, tracing a geometric pattern onto his skin, and, after a couple of awkward, tense moments during which they finished their meticulous inspection, they allowed their hand to drop away from his neck. 

Stepping back with a smug grin, seeming deeply satisfied with their work, the Arcana announced, “My, my. The Hanged Man’s work is as sloppy as ever.”

Their mention of the Hanged Man roused Lucio’s curiosity enough to prompt the Count to ask simply, “What?” Uncaring, the Devil gestured for Lucio to take his own peek at Julian’s neck, and what he saw made him freeze, his eyes widening. “Jules…” he said, voice hoarse. Julian couldn’t bear to look at him, although he was heartened by the way Lucio had still referred to him as _Jules_. “You traded your mark?”

“He did,” the Devil confirmed. They then sighed, tone dripping false sympathy. “Are you aware, Doctor,” they began, “of how many times my associates and I asked Lucio for his? No matter what we offered in return, he refused to relinquish it. He accepted nearly any price—hearts, souls, friends, family… but never his mark.” They shook their head. “Yet it seems as if yours was the first thing you bargained away.”

Whatever argument the Devil was trying to incite between the two of them fell flat as they both ignored that last jab, Lucio too embarrassed and Julian too blindsided to take the bait.

The doctor’s mind reeled, trying to process the truth of what he’d just been told: the Devil and their demons had attempted to beguile Lucio with promises of wealth and power, and, while Lucio had given in to the temptation more often than not, his selfishness had still had a limit—and that limit was his soulmate’s name on his wrist.

Bewildered, Julian finally looked up only to find that Lucio was the one avoiding his gaze, now.

After clearing his throat, he asked gently, “Does it really mean that much to you?”

“… So what if it does,” Lucio mumbled, noncommittal. It was good as a _yes_.

Julian swallowed, unsure how to react to that little revelation. Eventually, all he could put together was a stifled whisper of, “ _Why_?”

Brows furrowing at the question, Lucio lifted his head and met the other’s stare, appearing equally as baffled as Julian was feeling. “Why…?” he repeated, letting his voice fade. When Julian didn’t respond, he asked, “What do you mean, why?”

Lucio had to be joking—he _had_ to be. Julian had always known that Lucio’s self-awareness essentially amounted to nothing, but this went beyond the Count’s inability to confront his own flaws. This was a man who had mandated that his birthday was a city-wide holiday in order to force his subjects to participate in a three-day party celebrating him and him alone; had built a refuge for animals, both domestic and exotic, for no reason other than to surround himself with as many pets as possible; had conquered towns and hoarded their resources through campaigns that were meant less to assist Vesuvia’s residents and more to prove his own prowess… 

According to the Hanged Man and to the Devil, he’d even traded bits and pieces of the purity of his _soul_ in the pursuit of his wants and desires.

All of that, and he couldn’t fathom why Julian was confused over the fact that his self-centered greed apparently stopped at his mark? Perhaps it would have been less outrageous an idea were the name on his wrist anything other than _Julian Devorak_ , but Julian had even seen for himself that such was the case. On Lucio’s skin was the name of the doctor who’d wronged him so severely that he’d allowed his hurt to fester between them for _years_ , and yet he’d rebuffed every opportunity to surrender to the Devil the constant reminder of their disastrous first meeting?

They both must have remained silent for too long, because it was neither Julian nor Lucio who broke the quiet.

“I’m afraid the answer to your question is standing right in front of you, Doctor,” the Devil informed him. “Why _wouldn’t_ Lucio value his mark above all else, when it’s one of his last few tethers to his pathetic facade of humanity?

“When you sacrificed the physical evidence of your bond, Doctor, you thus affected the physical. Your actions have revealed the true form of his corrupted soul.” They waved loosely in Lucio’s direction, spanning the Count’s entire body. “ _This_ is who Lucio has become—a demon in the making.”

Julian faltered, his breath catching in his chest.

Lucio, a demon? No, that wasn’t possible. Of all the less than good things Julian had ever called the Count of Vesuvia—both within the privacy of his own head and out loud as he’d sat with Asra and Nadia on the latter’s balcony— _demon_ had never been one of them. The word hadn’t even crossed his mind. It’d slipped past Asra’s lips a few times when the magician had been deep in his cups, Nadia nodding sagely at his tirade, but Julian had always kept his dissent to himself, smothering the urge to speak behind another sip of wine. 

Although he’d laughed along as Asra and Nadia had poked fun at Lucio and had even made cruel jokes of his own at Lucio’s expense, there had still been _something_ that’d held him back from doing the same on those occasions he’d heard Asra name Lucio a demon with utter seriousness. When he thought of demons, he pictured people like Valdemar: in his opinion, Valdemar—who had no shades of good that he could see, like the ones he saw when he watched Lucio play fetch with his dogs or blush while presenting Nadia with gaudy jewelry—warranted the accusation, but _Lucio_?

Demons were evil, and Lucio wasn’t…

Lucio wasn’t _evil_. 

“ _What_?!”

Julian had barely been able to wrap his mind around the Devil’s words when Lucio’s indignant shriek shattered the hush that’d fallen.

“T-That’s _not_ true!” the Count shouted, fury twisting his lips into an ugly snarl as he glared at the Devil. 

He jerked his hand forward, moving as if he intended to sink his claws into the Devil’s stole and choke them with it, but he seemed to think better of it at the last second, dropping his hand back to his side and letting his fingers curl into a fist instead. 

The Devil didn’t react beyond merely offering a mocking raise of their brows, and Lucio growled in frustration at their lack of response.

“I’m not a demon! Tell him!” he hissed, pointing angrily in Julian’s direction. He seemed one second from stomping his foot like a child. “ _Tell him you’re lying_!”

_Lying_.

Understanding hit Julian so suddenly and so severely that it gave him whiplash, making him feel like he’d just been struck across the face.

It was almost humiliating, how easily the Devil was manipulating them. Refusing to fold under the weight of the Devil’s mind games had been a simpler task to accomplish when he’d been by himself, but doing so with _Lucio_ at his side… 

Lucio had always distracted him—it was why he’d largely shut himself away in the dungeons when he’d wanted to focus completely on his research. Even in the rare moments during which Lucio _hadn’t_ been blathering endlessly in his ear or been complaining at such a loud volume that he'd been tempted to leave the room altogether, the Count had still been impossible to ignore, at least for him. The doctor hardly had to wonder how he’d failed to notice the Devil’s deliberately misleading turns of phrase yet _again_.

“Lucio,” he said. 

When his weak bid for the other’s attention didn’t work, Lucio either brushing his attempt aside or, more likely, simply not hearing him, he stepped forward and laid his bare hand on his soulmate’s shoulder, above where his left arm would have been. 

_That_ had Lucio turning toward him; Julian gave him a small, awkward smile when their eyes met, feeling particularly pleased as his touch and the sight of him had some of the tension bleeding from the line of Lucio’s hunched shoulders.

“You’re right, I believe you,” Julian told him, keeping his voice pitched low and soft. “You’re not a demon.”

Lucio blinked, startled, and then launched into a rather predictable protest once he’d recovered, his inherent combativeness winning out over the fact that someone, maybe for the first time ever, had assured him that he was right. 

“But that’s what they said—” the Count started.

Julian cut him off as kindly as he could. “It’s not, though.” He darted a quick glance at the Devil, who seemed to be listening, head cocked to the side in curiosity. “Is it?”

The Arcana grinned. “Is what?” they asked, playfully derisive.

“You said _in the making_ ,” he explained haltingly, the awareness that the Devil would immediately catch and exploit even a single misstep of his bearing down on him. “So… he’s not a demon. Not yet.”

“Hm.” They hummed idly, crossing their arms. “And you _know_ that, do you?” 

_Another non-answer_ , Julian noted. 

The Devil nodded at Lucio, probably about to launch into another speech. “Is he not—?”

“Yes.” The doctor hurriedly responded to their first question before they could begin yet _another_ diatribe meant to fluster him. “I know that.” He took a deep, steadying breath and added, praying that Asra's soulmate had been right in this, “The Arcana can’t lie. That includes you.”

The Devil’s eyes flashed with annoyance—either at the certainty in his voice or at having been interrupted, Julian couldn’t tell.

“I see.” They drummed their claws along their forearms, thinking, and eventually their lips curled into a concerning smile. “You are correct. I cannot lie. Your soulmate is not yet fully a demon. But what _is_ a demon to you, Doctor?” They fixed him with a piercing stare. “Lucio has yet to fulfill his end of many bargains—that and his connection to you are what is holding him back from achieving his true potential. Because of mere technicality, he is not a demon in your eyes? His actions alone do not make him worthy of such a title?”

Considering how the Plague had shown to him the skewed state of his own moral code so long as _the greater good_ was involved, Julian felt as if he had little room to judge; he had _some_ room, yes, because he liked to think of himself as not _totally_ corrupt, whereas Lucio’s sense of decency was saved from being just about the worst of the worst by his—still shallow, but deeper than Julian had expected—capacity for kindness, which he only occasionally deigned to display to anyone who was neither his friend nor one of his pets. Well, that, _and_ by sheer virtue of being surrounded by the likes of Vulgora and Valdemar, neither of whom even seemed human anymore.

“W-Well, I—” Julian stuttered.

“What of a man who would have killed his soulmate?” the Arcana pressed ruthlessly, and Lucio stiffened. “Is he also not a demon to you?” They shook their head with mock sadness. “You are far from brilliant, Doctor, but you can guess my meaning, surely? Even _your_ willful ignorance must have its limits.”

Despite his best efforts, Julian couldn’t stifle the ill-timed snort of laughter that escaped him. If the Devil truly believed that his _willful ignorance_ —or whatever they’d termed it—had a limit, then they had more faith in him than both Mazelinka and Nazali combined.

They were right, though. It didn’t take a genius to piece together what the Devil had meant by their words, but the whole their obvious little hints had formed presented Julian with information neither new nor scandalous.

So what if Lucio had wanted to kill him? Lucio himself had said as much at least dozens of times when he’d first been in Julian’s care, after having had his arm amputated. Back then, he’d been pleasant enough—or, dare he say it, even _good_ —company, but he’d broken down in Julian’s presence more than once, understandably bitter and set on lashing out at those overseeing his recovery. Be they when he’d been in the middle of dissolving into a mess of ugly tears over the realization that he could no longer shuffle a deck of cards with his favorite method, or when he’d distracted himself from the sting of getting his wound cleaned and rebandaged by gritting his teeth and grumbling under his breath, his outbursts had all contained some variation of him swearing vengeance on the doctor who’d taken his arm. 

By the time they’d parted ways, Julian had become just as accustomed to Lucio threatening his life as he’d been to Lucio joking with him over a bottle of wine, even if he hadn’t quite discovered how to remain unaffected in either situation.

Lucio’s threats against his life had all been empty, anyway, evidenced by the fact that he was still alive and unharmed. And, in retrospect, the ones he’d made after they’d reunited had seemed more like a reflex than an expression of a genuine desire to kill him, too.

“Is this amusing to you,” the Devil demanded. 

Their tone was still cool and collected, but beneath it now was a note of frustrated disarray. They’d hidden their displeasure well, but Julian had surprised them once before; he knew how to recognize when his reaction had caught them off guard, and laughing in their face must have done just that. In contrast, Lucio was much more blatant in his shock, his brows inching higher up his forehead, incompetent as ever at concealing his emotions.

“Was I somehow not clear enough? Are you so dense that I must spell it out for you?” the Arcana continued. “Your own soulmate would have left you for _dead_ , Doctor.”

“Probably,” the doctor agreed. He looked at Lucio. “Except he didn’t.”

It felt like hours had passed before Lucio answered him.

“Jules…” his soulmate said, stricken, and Julian’s heart plummeted.

“Uh, you… weren’t _actually_ going to kill me at any point,” he asked hesitantly, “right?”

Lucio ducked his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he traced the whorls in the pattern of the flooring. “I mean, not exactly,” he finally admitted.

“Not… exactly,” Julian echoed blankly. 

“You wouldn’t have died,” Lucio assured him, glancing up briefly to shoot him what the other had likely intended to be a nervous grin but had turned out to be more of a grimace. The Count’s expression soon fell when Julian did nothing but return the look with a stare full of apprehension and dread, and he dropped his gaze back to the floor with a contrite shrug, mumbling weakly, “Maybe.”

Next to Lucio, the Devil was watching both of them in open delight, as if they were a spectator to a game: their smile was widening steadily as their eyes flicked back and forth between them, observing Lucio as the Count spoke and then immediately looking to Julian to gauge how the doctor reacted. For once, they said nothing, apparently content to remain quiet and on the sidelines—this was a hole into which Lucio had dug himself _by_ himself, and they almost seemed _excited_ at the prospect of seeing just how much deeper into trouble Lucio could sink without their assistance.

Julian tried to ignore them. “Maybe,” he repeated, throat dry. “You were going to kill me… _maybe_.” 

“I-I said I wasn’t going to kill you!” Lucio insisted, wincing at the accusation. In the very next moment, he began rambling defensively, much the same as he tended to do when he knew he was in the wrong, and Julian’s eyes widened at the sudden deluge of excuses that spilled from him, each word more confusing than the last. “Look, Jules, I _swear_ —it was a _mistake_ , okay? I can admit that! Shouldn’t me acknowledging I made a mistake _mean_ something? I just—I wasn’t thinking. At all. Or, well, I _was_ , b-but just. Not. Not clearly. Sometimes the Plague makes everything kind of fuzzy, and—”

With his every statement, Lucio had worked himself up into more and more of a fervor—he hadn’t paused for breath _once_ , and, were he still human, Julian was positive his face would have been bright red from lack of air.

“And I really wasn't going to kill you. I mean it! You definitely wouldn’t have died, probably!” the Count added, frantic. “I just… didn’t know what else to do. You were sending me a lot of mixed signals, you know? You ran away—even after I specifically told you _not_ to—but then you came _back_ , a-and then you _kissed_ me…”

“Kissed you?” Julian interrupted, frowning. 

They’d kissed only _twice_ , so when had—?

He sucked in a short breath, his stomach twisting violently as understanding dawned.

“The Plague beetle,” he said in a whisper, his voice barely audible even to his own ears.

Horror was settling cold and deep into his bones, flooding his every sense. A sharp buzzing had filled his head, the sound of it akin to the high-pitched rustling of insect legs that he’d heard whenever he’d lifted the lid of the cistern to feed the beetles in the dungeons; and he was seeing before him not Lucio but Valdemar, their smirk wide and the tips of their fingers covered in powdery, red residue. He hadn’t been concerned when his boss had brought to his attention that he’d accidentally crushed a Plague beetle—Valdemar had expressed many times over that they’d greatly enjoy any opportunity to dissect him, and, for the past week or two, their fascination that he’d managed to go so long without being infected had been gradually morphing into restlessness, their hands itching for the chance to strap him to the operating table and poke and prod at his organs. 

When they’d swiped at his clothes and had counseled him to be more careful with the Plague beetles, he’d hardly been able to hold back the urge to roll his eyes. He’d written off the incident as a scheme of theirs to obtain him as their next science project, believing their patience to have finally snapped, and he hadn’t thought about it since.

He’d been very, _very_ wrong.

“You brought the Plague beetle into my study.” Julian shook his head, incredulous. For what reason would Lucio have slipped a Plague beetle into his room in the dungeons? “Were you…” He swallowed, the question stuck in his throat. “Were you trying to give me the Plague?”

In answer, Lucio did nothing but flinch. 

“… You were,” Julian realized, feeling faint. “You were going to give me the Plague.”

“I didn’t, though!” Lucio protested, surging forward with renewed determination. “Jules, come on. Don’t be mad. I obviously didn’t go through with it!” He spread his palm in supplication, eyes wide with exaggerated remorse as he went on, angling to elicit forgiveness in every manner that didn’t involve actually apologizing. “You wouldn’t have even _known_ if I hadn’t said anything just now! I _wanted_ to tell you. _Me_. The Devil didn’t put me up to this. I-I’m just trying to be honest with you—you know, like you asked!”

Unable to withstand any more of the other’s poor justifications, Julian held up a trembling hand, letting his eyes slide shut lest he become overwhelmed to the point of collapse.

“Please,” he begged quietly. “Stop. Just… stop.” 

Lucio must’ve been able to hear the deep exhaustion in his voice, because he subsided without argument, stepping back and closing his mouth with a sharp _click_. Even the Devil kept to themselves and refrained from sharing their commentary, evidently too captivated to consider interjecting, their expression infinitely enthralled. 

Their silence offered Julian the chance he needed to collect his last shreds of sanity, scraping together what he could in order to begin the colossal task of pulling himself back together, and the thin veneer of calm he eventually managed to construct eased both the headache that’d sprung to life behind his eyes and the roaring of blood in his ears.

Lucio—his _soulmate_ —had, at one point, intended to infect him with the Plague. He _wished_ he could say he was surprised, but, in truth… he wasn’t. 

It’d been jarring for him to hear Lucio’s stilted confession in that he hadn’t been expecting it, yes; but, upon closer examination, was it _shocking_ , learning that the same man who’d lied to him for years about his name would have given him the Plague? By now, it would have spoken more to the sheer depths of Julian’s naivete than to Lucio’s cruelty, had Julian found himself taken aback by that. Lucio was petty on his best days and downright vicious and vindictive on his worst, and Julian had seen firsthand—both as Lucio’s doctor and, he supposed, as Lucio’s grudging friend—how the Plague had chipped away at what little ability to think and act rationally the Count had possessed in the first place. 

The Plague didn’t excuse Lucio’s behavior, but Lucio hadn’t been _wrong_ to cite it as a cause for clouded judgment, had he? For a man with an already pretty terrible track record when it came to making balanced, reasonable decisions, it was to be expected that _dying_ had reduced his minimal problem-solving skills to almost non-existent. And not only was he dying, but he was dying _slowly_ , the Plague decimating whatever control he had over himself throughout the course of a few months while he could do nothing about it; Lucio had been able to escape the swift death to which the Plague treated its victims, but the disease had taken its grueling toll on him nonetheless, his suffering having been extended in the same turn as his life.

Recently, impatience and agony had started to influence nearly _everything_ the Count said or did, and the moment he’d barged into Julian’s study had been no exception: from the desperation of his grip as his fingers had tightened their hold on Julian’s jacket to the frailty of his frame that’d had all but him swaying on his feet, Lucio had been the worst version of himself. Julian could recall very clearly how the hysterical look in Lucio’s eyes had faded only once he’d been kissed, the comfort of actual, physical touch tugging him back from the brink—and, even then, whatever clarity Lucio had gained had been brief, since, within what had felt like seconds, he’d turned tail and fled.

So, was it _surprising_ that the Count had been about to lower himself to committing such an act? No—not after taking into account, well, everything. Julian had come to terms with the kind of person his soulmate was, and, beyond that, he was familiar with the adverse effects the Plague had on its victims, having spent the last few months detailing the disease’s symptoms and outcomes in his journal. Of course it _hurt_ to know that Lucio had been about to do such a thing to him, the sting of the knowledge painful in a way Julian hadn’t foreseen, but it was far from startling.

What _was_ surprising, however, was that Lucio—greedy, selfish, impulsive—had… restrained himself. 

Between that and the fact that Lucio had consistently refused to sacrifice his mark, Julian didn’t know what to think.

“Why didn’t you?” he finally asked.

Lucio squinted in confusion at the apparent non-sequitur, tilting his head. “Why didn’t I what?”

“Give me the Plague,” Julian clarified. “You were _going_ to, but then you didn’t. Why not?”

At that, Lucio scowled, but the edges of his expression wavered slightly in embarrassment. “Jules, seriously?” he bit out. “Did you _want_ me to give you the Plague? Isn’t it enough that I didn’t?”

The answer to both questions was a resounding _no_ , but Julian knew Lucio well enough to guess that the other had already been able to figure out as much—it was almost a given that Lucio was asking not because he wanted an answer, but because he was trying either to stall or to divert attention away from the matter. 

“I want to know why,” Julian said, brushing aside the Count’s attempt to convince him not to pursue the topic. The horrible deflection made him even more interested in Lucio’s reasons now. “Please.”

Lucio huffed, his stubborn resolve crumbling in the face of Julian’s sincerity. “It’s stupid,” he muttered, seeming _nervous_ of all things, but he soon went on without further prompting. “I… I _couldn't_ , all right?” 

_Huh_. “You… couldn’t,” Julian said carefully.

Once again, the speed of his words became rapid, although this time his tone was less _guilty_ and more _mortified_ , and he lifted his hand to cover his face as if he were hoping it’d help him to disappear. 

Altogether, Julian thought Lucio looked like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. 

“I couldn’t do it. I-I don’t know. It’s. I just—I couldn’t hurt you. You kissed me, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. You said all of those nice things. And you even said you didn’t want me to die, a-and you’re the only one who ever _has_ , and you said it like you _meant_ it, and I. Just. I realized—” The Count darted a quick glance in the Devil’s direction, his scowl deepening once he saw that they were watching him intently. “Do you _mind_?!”

If the Devil was phased by finding themselves on the receiving end of Lucio’s sudden hostility, they didn’t show it. “I find that I share the doctor’s curiosity,” they told him plainly, and then they smiled, the line of it condescending and wicked. “You realized what?”

“Ugh. Whatever.” Lucio scoffed and shook his head. “Anyway—Jules, I’m _sorry_ , okay? I’m sorry.” 

He spat out his apology as if it physically pained him to do so, like someone had reached into his throat and was ripping the words from him one by one. Despite that, he still somehow seemed… _genuine_ , and Julian was too stunned by the novelty that was the sight of Lucio _apologizing_ —apologizing of his own volition, even—to be unhappy with the tone in which the apology was being delivered. 

“I know we’re soulmates, but I realized I… _care_ about you,” Lucio finished uncomfortably. “Um. More than out of, like—obligation, or something like that. And. I mean. Sure, everyone loves me, but.” 

When Julian merely raised his brows in disbelief in response to the other’s grandstanding, the Count quickly demurred. 

“But you’re the only one who’s ever… really… seemed to actually _care_ about me too. Like… me as in _me_ , not Count Lucio or even Prince Monty. And that… kind of…” He looked away and shrugged, shoulders falling heavily with uncharacteristic shyness. “I just couldn’t hurt you.”

Of everything Julian had believed that Lucio might say, _I couldn’t hurt you_ hadn’t even made the list of possibilities. When was the last time Lucio had done so little as hesitate—even for the briefest, most fleeting of seconds—over the idea of hurting someone? In the entirety of their association, even during the years they’d spent apart, had Lucio _ever_? His soulmate had always been reckless to a fault, more prone to rash decisions than to ones that were well-thought out; in addition to that was his rather worrying security in his convictions, which meant that, even when he acted poorly, he’d typically managed to delude himself into believing he was in the right nevertheless, and it was all made worse by his pride.

When Julian had attempted to make his peace with being tied forever to _Lucio_ of all people, he’d never imagined that Lucio might have a side like this: hearing his soulmate admit to common, human flaws—like _having a weakness_ and _regretting past thoughts and actions_ , all things of which he’d been sure were beneath the dignity of the great Count of Vesuvia—left him feeling dumbfounded. 

And more than that was the fact that Lucio claimed to have started this discussion for no reason other than to be honest. Lucio had never struck him as particularly bright, at least not in terms of navigating personal relationships—neither of them were, truthfully, and that was something about which Julian had no misconceptions—but was the Count so expertly manipulative to the point that he knew exactly what to say in order to tug at Julian’s heartstrings? 

Julian didn’t believe so; outside of the battlefield, Lucio had a tendency to crack under pressure, his already poor control over himself fracturing down the middle with every added stress, so it was likely that the pressure Lucio was visibly feeling at the current moment meant he was telling the truth. 

_Only one way to find out_ , Julian figured. “You care about me?” he wondered, valiantly doing his best to ignore the heated thrill that Lucio’s answering nod sent racing through him. _Not the point_ , he had to remind himself. “But what if I hadn’t said those things? Or kissed you? Would you have gone through with it?” He had an inkling as to what Lucio’s response would be, and there was little doubt that it would pain _both_ of them for Lucio to say it aloud, but Julian forged ahead, regardless: this was a matter of testing his soulmate’s newfound dedication to being truthful with him, and, considering all the years of possible companionship that Lucio’s dishonesty had already cost them as well as the role it’d played in leading them here, it was of paramount importance. “Would you have given me the Plague?”

It took a few moments for Lucio to work up the nerve to reply, but, when he did, his words were more than a tad lackluster. “I don’t know,” he said, and, as disappointing an answer as it was, it’d sounded sincere to Julian’s ears. Lucio wasn’t being noncommittal in an effort to escape or to ameliorate the consequences—instead, he truly, _honestly_ did not know.

In hindsight, maybe it hadn’t been fair to ask that specific question: according to himself, Lucio hadn’t been quite… _right_ , in that moment, what with the Plague having cast a heavy fog over his mind that’d had the potential to exacerbate his irrationality; and, since their disastrous discussion in Julian’s office had occurred only so long ago, the Count hadn’t had much time to reckon with it, if he’d even thought about it before now at all.

Although being fair to Lucio was just about the absolute _last_ thing with which he was concerned at present, Julian knew that asking such a thing hadn’t been fair to _himself_ , either. He wanted to see if he could trust Lucio’s words to be true, and only asking a question to which he was already reasonably certain of the answer would serve that purpose beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Julian nodded to himself as he mentally prepared to put forward the single question that came to mind—in actuality, it was one that he’d been hoping to ask for some time, but this was the first opportunity he’d had to do so. Something about it felt more poignant now, and he had to cough to clear the lump in his throat before he could speak. 

“What about when we first met?”

Lucio looked up at him sharply, his frown somehow wary and suspicious both. “What about it?”

“If you’d known everything that would happen,” Julian asked, drawing out the question slowly, each individual word feeling like lead and weighing heavily on his tongue, “would you still have lied to me about your name?”

As he’d expected, Lucio froze, terrified, appearing every inch a wild animal that’d found themselves on the wrong end of a hunter’s arrow; but, though time seemed to tick by more sluggishly than usual as the doctor waited for an answer, Julian remained silent, refusing to do anything that even remotely resembled begging. While the Count had responded favorably to a simple _please_ whenever Julian had offered him one, the onus of carrying _this_ conversation was entirely on Lucio alone, and Julian had already made him enough concessions to consider making this one, too, as small as it may have seemed.

If Lucio _did_ want to be honest with him the way he’d so claimed, then he’d speak up sooner or later without prompting—and speak up he did.

“Yes,” his soulmate ground out through clenched teeth, his hand curled into a fist. The tips of his claws dug into his flesh but hadn’t gone deep enough to draw blood. “Yes, I probably still would’ve lied to you. I mean—Jules, our literal first meeting was you _cutting off_ my _arm_! It just—it wasn’t _fair_. And I didn’t care about you back then like I do now. Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve _told_ you _eventually_ if I’d known your mark wouldn’t change. I only…” He exhaled harshly, the sound of it a frustrated growl. “ _Yes_ , okay? I wouldn’t do anything like that _now_ —I _told_ you, Jules, _I can’t hurt you_ , so I _can’t_ do anything like that now, anyway—but I would’ve.”

Julian couldn’t help but believe him.

It should’ve frightened him, how much it soothed his frayed nerves to hear his soulmate make such a confession, but Lucio’s honesty was _promising_ , so much so that Julian felt a wave of relief so strong that it choked him. 

He couldn’t forgive Lucio for almost giving him the Plague, no, and he wasn’t certain if he’d ever reach a place where he someday _could_ , but they could… they could talk about it. Once the Plague had ended and the vast expanse of time had unfurled itself before them, they could talk about it—the Plague, their marks, the Devil, _everything_ —and he’d be able to trust that not only would Lucio answer his questions, but also that Lucio would answer them _truthfully_.

Maybe it was weakness on his part, granting Lucio another chance, but… Julian had always been weak. And he was weak for the prospect of finding happiness with his soulmate—with _Lucio_ —especially.

“I… all right,” he said, swallowing.

Almost instantly, Lucio brightened—he lifted his head, straightening his bowed back from its guilty slump, and his eyes went wide as unbridled desire sparked to life in his gaze, the look of hope and longing on his face so intense and so _raw_ that Julian’s heart skipped a beat at the sight. “All right?” he repeated in nothing more than a low, rough whisper, his voice fraught with optimism. “All right what?”

“Look, it’s… You…” Julian waved a hand, mulling over how best to disabuse his soulmate of the notion that he was absolved of all wrongdoing without also crushing his spirits. “It’s not _fine_ , Lucio. That’s not what I’m saying. I can’t…” He sighed. “I can’t just _forgive_ you. Not right now, at least. I’m still… I don’t know. But,” he continued pointedly, somehow scrounging up the wherewithal to offer Lucio a shaky smile, “I… I understand, and we can… we can talk about it. Later, I guess.

“I care about you, too.”

“You do?” Lucio asked breathlessly, leaning forward; then, in the next moment, he shook his head, seeming as if he were trying to shake off physically the last traces of any vulnerability, and an empty, forced smirk played loosely across to his lips. “Uh, of course you do. It’s me.” However, just as soon as his typical bluster and facade of confidence appeared, it slipped, and Lucio’s brows furrowed. “Wait, but—why’d you trade your mark, though?”

Julian glanced reflexively down at his wrist. He’d yet to replace his glove, which left his blank skin on display, and the lack of the harsh, dark lines that’d read _Montag_ almost seemed to mock him. He quickly tore his gaze away, the stark bareness of where his mark had once rested making him feel slightly ill. 

At least Lucio had taken to heart his assurance that his feelings were returned—the Count was staring at Julian’s wrist in open, honest confusion rather than the accusatory betrayal with which he’d regarded it earlier.

“Oh. Um. That.” 

No moment had ever felt like a particularly _good_ one to explain to Lucio the finer details of his deal with the Hanged Man, but _now_? Now was… especially bad. Julian had little doubt that telling Lucio about both his deal and his plan to rid Vesuvia of the Plague only mere _seconds_ after he’d claimed to care about him would come across as insensitive and manipulative, and he struggled with the best way to phrase it. The last thing he wanted was his soulmate thinking that what he’d just said— _I care about you, too_ —had been a lie or an attempt to exploit his feelings. 

“It’s… um, I had to.” He fiddled with the fingers of his right hand, picking anxiously at the grime underneath his nails. “To, uh. To help cure Plague, I guess.”

He jumped, startled, when he suddenly found himself on the receiving end of the Count’s harsh grip. Lucio had lunged forward and grabbed him, his red eyes flickering with a frenzied gleam as he strengthened his hold, and Julian fought back the tide of pain that rose with the other’s claws sinking even further into his shoulder, almost gouging holes in his clothing.

“Jules,” Lucio said from no more than a few inches away, his voice rife with desperation, “you know how to end the Plague?”

“I… yes.” Gently, Julian reached up and slid his palm over the hand with which Lucio had seized his shoulder. “Yes, I do.” There was no sense in hesitating any longer and prolonging the torture. Squeezing the Count’s hand to comfort both himself and his soulmate, he told him, “It’s… Lucio, it’s your death. That’s the cure.”

“It’s my _death_?” Lucio croaked. 

Disbelief colored his tone, and he took a stumbling half-step backwards, but Julian held tightly onto his hand, preventing him from moving too far away.

“Look, I-I have a plan!” he rushed to add, placating. Lucio must have at least _somewhat_ believed him, because he settled, albeit with a frown. “I have a plan, I swear. I can’t promise that it’ll work, but… I _do_ have one!”

With his free hand, he brushed his fingers along the line of Lucio’s jaw, relief curling low and warm in his chest when his soulmate didn’t brush aside his touch. It was as clear a sign as any that Lucio, although obviously reluctant to remain on this topic any longer, was listening to him, apparently amenable to hearing him out.

Confidence bolstered, he elaborated, “I traded my mark for one of the Hanged Man’s, and, according to them, theirs lets me heal people from, well, _anything_ —”

Before he could finish, the Devil interrupted, cutting him off with a deep, foreboding hum of understanding that immediately set his teeth on edge. They’d been eerily silent for what’d felt both like ages and like it hadn’t been long enough, but Julian had scarcely been able to forget that they were there: their figure had constantly loomed large and imperious at Lucio’s side as they’d watched with detached amusement the two humans interact, treating themselves as if they were the audience to a mediocre play. However, they’d evidently grown bored enough of what was happening on the metaphorical stage before them to return to their usual heckling.

“Ah, I see,” they mused aloud, tapping their chin exaggeratedly. Julian turned on them a glare, and they responded with a simper, entertained by his ire. “ _That_ is your plan, then, Doctor? How… uninspired. I truly believed you’d have come up with something better.” They gestured to Lucio, the motion infuriatingly dismissive. “Your dear soulmate would never agree to it, anyway, spineless coward that he is.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Lucio growled, but the Devil merely raised a brow, unaffected.

“He is asking you to die,” they informed him flatly, and then, once Lucio had quieted, sufficiently chastised, they shot Julian a smirk, self-satisfaction tugging at the corners of their lips. “Or am I wrong?”

“You’re not _wrong_ ,” Julian conceded, jaw clenched in frustration, “but you’re not _right_ , either.” He sighed, letting his irritation with the Devil that’d suffused his posture bleed from the tense line of his shoulders, after which he used the hand still cupping Lucio’s cheek to encourage his soulmate to turn towards him. “Lucio, please believe me—I meant it when I said I wouldn’t let you die. You _know_ that.” He paused, faltering. “W-Well, uh, I won’t let you die _permanently_ , but. Semantics.” He shook his head. “I can heal you.”

“Ridiculous,” the Devil sneered. “You are a doctor, are you not? Your reliance on death as a solution when there are still many others does not speak well of your abilities.” 

Julian would have rolled his eyes, had he been certain that doing so would not have been met with another chain crushing his windpipe. “You have a better idea?” he asked.

With a dramatic flourish, the Devil swept out a hand, indicating the intricate, golden place settings that’d been arranged on top of the table as well as the dining room at large. “Much better,” they confirmed. “My efforts will not go to waste.”

Annoyance, scorching in its intensity, crackled up his spine like lightning, and he found himself throwing back in the Devil’s face their own words from earlier, saying, “And you _know_ that, do you?”

His defiance was met with a grin, the cut of it across the Devil’s face severe and threatening. 

“Do you think that, because _you_ are the one asking, Lucio will accept death? Even a _temporary_ one, if what you say is true? Your soulmate is many things, but, first and foremost, he is weak. He will choose the plan that does not require a sacrifice on his part, and that is mine,” the Arcana told him, hurling insults left and right as if the man in question couldn’t hear their every word. “He is but a drop in the bucket of pathetic mortals who cannot face their fears, each one more eager to make deals with me than the last. 

“He _will_ participate in this ritual, Doctor,” they continued. “If I cannot rid myself of him, then I will wring from him his payment for the debts he has incurred until I have been repaid in full.”

It was at that point that Lucio _snapped_ , as whatever had been holding him back from arguing with his patron finally splintered one time too many.

“ _Do it_ , then,” the Count snarled, drawing himself to his full height. 

He was still shorter than the Devil, but he was no less impressive, his pointed teeth bared and his eyes brimming with rage and resentment. For once, even the Devil themselves did not seem completely unmoved—Julian was able to track the minute shift in their expression, watching incredulously as Lucio’s reaction sent dull shock and displeasure scrawling across their face. Though the lapse in firm control over themselves was buried once more behind their cool facade as soon as it had appeared, the doctor knew what he’d seen. 

Just as they’d briefly wavered when he’d turned down their offer to make a deal, they’d done it again just now, having not at all prepared themselves for the possibility that Lucio might refuse them, too. 

The Devil didn’t _understand_ humans, Julian realized. They certainly _thought_ they did, yes, but they were arrogant to a fault—constrained as they were by their own hubris, they couldn’t fathom the complexities of and the various driving forces behind human emotions, and Lucio was nothing if not a bottomless well of human emotions that rarely had a discernible drive.

“Get rid of me or whatever,” Lucio hissed.

“Now, now, Lucio,” the Devil said patronizingly, letting out a _tsk_ under their breath. “Don’t be stupid—”

“ _You’re_ stupid!” Lucio spat. Julian swallowed back a poorly timed laugh, the remark having reminded him of old, childhood arguments with his sister. “If you want your dumb payment, then _fine_. Take it!” The Count removed his hand from the other’s grip and jabbed purposefully at his own chest with a finger, glaring at the Devil all the while. “Take _my_ heart. It doesn’t matter—I can’t die!” He glanced back at Julian, who hurriedly schooled countenance into something appropriately serious. “Right, Jules?”

“Uh.” The doctor blinked owlishly at him. Was Lucio… agreeing to follow his plan? Too floored to respond intelligently, he failed to remind Lucio of the particulars that separated _dying_ and _dying permanently_ , and he simply said, “Right.”

The Devil’s eyes narrowed, appraising Lucio with a new, shrewd consideration that Julian found fascinating: for as convinced of their own superiority as the Devil was, they’d made such an amateur mistake in deeming humans—in deeming _Lucio_ —predictable that it was almost painful. It was the same level of error as the ones that Julian himself had made during his very first week of studying under Nazali, equal to his most basic of slip-ups that’d had his mentor rolling their eyes. 

The Devil had severely miscalculated both the amount of open contempt of theirs that would Lucio suffer _and_ the depths of Lucio’s dedication to doing things with no motivation other than spite. They’d relied for so long on Lucio’s greatest fears and insecurities to control him that, when Lucio hadn’t reacted to the threat of death _exactly_ the way they’d imagined he would, they were left scrambling to regain the upper hand.

“Lucio,” Julian said, snatching his soulmate’s hand again. 

He had to act fast, before the Arcana could find their footing and establish their influence over the other once more. As poorly thought out as it’d been to depend almost entirely on fear to keep Lucio in line, the Devil’s belief that such a method would work hadn’t been _totally_ baseless: as far as Julian had been able to gather, Lucio feared his own death more than anything. Given the chance, the Devil might be able to manipulate the Count back into their clutches.

Julian couldn’t let that happen.

“Are you serious?” he asked. “Are you _actually_ saying you want to go through with this? You’d… you _would_ have to die. J-Just for a little bit!” he amended hastily, raising his free hand in supplication. Although he wanted Lucio’s agreement, he’d have been no better than the Devil if he hadn’t explained just what his plan entailed. “But, like I said—I can use the Hanged Man’s mark to heal you. If you’re afraid, you don’t have to be.” 

Lucio swallowed nervously, his animosity falling to the wayside as he gave the question due thought. It was a testament to how conflicted he must have been feeling that he didn’t challenge the allegation that he was _scared_ , and Julian laced their fingers together reassuringly, ignoring the pinpricks of Lucio’s claws against his skin.

“I’m serious, I guess,” the Count finally answered. “I mean, I… I trust you.” As Julian’s heart jumped at the freely given admission and left him unable to do anything but gape, a hesitant, abashed smile crept its way onto the Lucio’s face. “Besides, I, uh.” He coughed. “Kind of maybe owe you one?”

The doctor figured there was no point in holding himself back—in possession of a human body or not, this was still _Lucio_ , whose full trust had always seemed impossible to obtain after the fiasco that was their first meeting. Had Lucio ever trusted _anyone_ so completely that he’d put his life in their hands, for that matter? More grateful than he believed words could have possibly conveyed, Julian drew his soulmate that smallest bit closer and pressed a soft kiss against the other’s cheek in thanks, hoping that Lucio couldn’t feel through their clasped hands the embarrassingly rapid pace at which his pulse had taken to thundering.

Unfortunately, as soon as his lips had just barely brushed the coarse fur covering Lucio’s cheek, he found himself suddenly empty-handed: the white-hot rush of panic flooded him as he saw the Devil ripping Lucio from his grasp by the length of chain they’d managed to wrap around the Count’s wrist without his notice, using the fetters to jerk their victim away from Julian and back towards themselves. With an indifferent wave of the hand, the Devil had two more chains springing from the floorboards, directing each one to encircle Lucio’s knees, and the Count’s accompanying screech of pain as he was yanked to kneel before the Devil’s feet was blood-curdling. 

“Hey—!” Julian shouted, alarmed, latching onto the chain around Lucio’s wrist in an attempt to pry his soulmate free, but the metal _burned_ , even the skin of his gloved hand blistering under the heat. Although he fought the impulse to let go, he was forced to drop his hold as the Devil retaliated by snaking a chain around his throat and pulling the links tauter than they ever had before, and he gasped for breath, his fingers instinctively flying towards his neck.

“I have had my fill of this sentimental drivel,” the Devil sniffed. 

Heaving a sarcastic sigh, they idly ran their nails up and down along the fabric of their stole to polish them, holding their claws up for inspection once they’d finished. Despite their general aura of cool disdain, their movements were no longer as smooth and languid and blasé as they’d been, revealing how truly aggravated they were, and the lingering shadows of malevolence shaded their gaze, the red of their eyes flaring with frustration. Still surveying the tips of their nails, they scoffed to themselves.  

After a few moments, Arcana huffed and let their hands fall to their sides. “My time is valuable, and I am not in the business of wasting it. I know when to cut my losses.” They reached down and grabbed a fistful of the fur atop the Count’s head, yanking hard enough to make Lucio hiss. “And _you_ , Lucio? You are a loss.”

Struggling against his bonds, Julian sank to his knees, settling himself onto the floor at Lucio’s level. He fumbled to grab hold of the other’s hand, hindered by the way his vision had begun to go hazy from the lack of air; thankfully, he soon felt Lucio’s fingers slip between his, and, though the strength of the tight grip with which his soulmate had taken his hand was excruciating, the sting of Lucio’s claws digging gashes into his flesh provided a welcome contrast to the agony of the chain around his neck. 

The Devil ignored him, hardly even tossing a glance in his direction, disregarding him easily as if he were worth less to them than the dirt outside. “If it is your death you desire, then so be it, little good that it may do you,” they said. “Your heart, and I will consider your debts settled and our association finished.

“But know that you would be nothing without me,” they went on, lowering their voice as they leaned down, their face a mere fraction away from Lucio’s. “You _are_ nothing without me. You are a fraud with no real strength or skills of your own, with no one to thank for the unimpressive, middling success you have achieved but _me_. Once I have rescinded all of the power I have so graciously given you, you will have naught to offer. And, when your dear soulmate abandons you once he has finally seen you for the weak, vile little pest you are, I will not help you, no matter how much you beg and cry.” 

If they’d hoped that their words would have Lucio cowering in fear pleading for forgiveness, then it’d been in vain, because the only response with which Lucio graced them was to spit in their face.

“… Charming.” The Arcana shook their head, using one of the ends of their stole to wipe themselves clean. “Well. I suppose enough is enough, Lucio. I have offered you many chances—I will not be so kind again.” Grinning to themselves, they added, “After all, you are not the only fool at my disposal.”

With that, they released their grip on the Count’s hair and allowed their hand to drift down to settle over his sternum, the points of their claws poised over his heart.

“This is going to hurt,” they advised, a taunting smirk on their lips, and Julian saw Lucio’s eyes widen in terror as the Devil plunged their hand into his soulmate’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said up at the top the next chapter should take nowhere near as long as this one did :-( i'm just like....really? sad? to see this end?
> 
> tysm for reading this, i can't even tell you how much i appreciate the fact that someone out there is actually reading something i'm writing that isn't a research paper. 
> 
> in the meantime while i'm finishing up the last chapter here's some [AMAZING ART](https://runescape-online.tumblr.com/post/188116123149/hey-everyone-please-look-at-this-beautiful-art) for this story by [mamajunghan](https://mamajunghan.tumblr.com)!!!! ily

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me [here](https://runescape-online.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!
> 
> if you spot any typos pls let me know! :-) see you soon.


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